Small Bump
by thimbles
Summary: Pregnancy is an entirely natural process, one I'd studied and seen in all its stages. Yet in that moment, knowing that Bella was carrying our child, a little person somehow knit together from her and me, and the love we shared, it seemed a strange miracle—she seemed a strange miracle. Life, loss, love, and hope. (Angst rating applies to Ch. 1 only.)
1. Chapter 1

_**Small Bump.**_

* * *

Pregnancy is an entirely natural process, one I'd studied and seen in all its stages. Yet in that moment, knowing that Bella was carrying _our _child, a little person somehow knit together from her and me, and the love we shared, it seemed a strange miracle—_she_ seemed a strange miracle. Life, loss, love, and hope. (Angst rating applies to Ch. 1 only.)

* * *

_Please be aware, this chapter deals with a miscarriage. Please PM me if you need more info. before reading on._

* * *

**Chapter 1.**

I close my eyes, wishing I could grab at sleep like I do the edges of my comforter, pulling it up over my head and blocking out the waxing daylight. Under the cotton, I'm surrounded by the smell of lavender laundry soap and Bella and me all mixed up together. It smells like home and comfort.

_Don't wake her, go back to sleep_, I tell myself, even as I'm reaching for her, sliding the palm of my hand across her lower back.

Her skin is warm and so smooth. That cautionary voice shuts right up as I rub slow circles over her back. The feel of her skin is addictive, and I wriggle closer to her, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her against me, her back to my chest.

"Mmmm." Bella sighs, and I feel a small twinge of guilt until I hear her breathing even out again.

Lifting my head to look over the bundle of sheets and blankets that Bella has entombed herself within, I search out the fluorescent glow of the clock-radio.

_5:52 _

Dawn is sneaking in through the crack between the curtains, painting a strip of red-gold across the ceiling and down the wall, and bouncing sparks of light off Bella's tangled hair.

I squirm, trying to get closer than close, feeling like my nerve endings have been replaced with magnets, straining for Bella.

And then, with my hand flat against her belly, my nose buried in her hair, and my ankles tangled with hers, a new understanding settles into me with the quietness of dawn.

My fiancée is pregnant.

Her skin is softer. Her hair shinier. And her smell … _fuck_, she smells amazing. It's not that she smells different, not exactly. It's _her_, just … more potent or something. I don't even know if I can explain it, but it drives me wild.

And I'm so confident I'm right, I'm already imagining her belly growing round and her breasts getting fuller. I'm starting to imagine ultrasounds and doctor's visits and resting my hand over her belly to feel the kicks and punches delivered by tiny feet and fists.

And even as joy spreads through me, it's chased by sorrow and fear.

As much as I want to shake her awake and tell her my suspicion, as much as I want to ask her when her period is due and to offer to run down to the pharmacy to grab a pregnancy test, I won't.

I can't.

I can't bring myself to do that to her, to plant even the tiniest seed of hope.

Because this wouldn't be the first time. We've been here before. The same signs, the same subtle changes. I couldn't keep my hands off her then, either.

* * *

_**Twelve Months Ago.**_

Tented beneath the sheets, my hands roamed across her back, smoothing along the curve of her hip. Bella squirmed, giggling as I pinched her butt.

"What's gotten into you?"

I shrugged, kissing her neck and creeping my hand from her belly button to her breasts. "Your skin is driving me crazy. Is it always this soft? It feels softer. I can't stop touching it."

"Mmm-hmm." She snorted. "I'm sure it has everything to do with my skin and nothing to do with this."

I groaned as her fingers wrapped around me, squeezing, pumping. I thrust against her hand. "Fuck."

"Mm. Exactly." Her false-irritation was unconvincing.

"Seriously." I grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away before she caused me to lose all coherency. "I'm not making this up. You're so soft." I traced a finger down her arm, watching her goosebumps follow my touch.

"And–" I tucked my nose into the crook of her neck and inhaled "–you smell so good. I … I want you. I always want you, but when you feel like this and smell like this … I want you _more_."

"You're a weirdo," she told me. But then she pushed me onto my back and settled herself over me, and I don't think she really minded too much.

Later that morning, we sat at the breakfast table, the weak winter sun catching on cutlery and water glasses, but doing very little to warm us. I watched Bella pick her way through breakfast, barely eating her croissant and wrinkling her nose at the mug of coffee I offered her. I pulled her onto my lap, sliding my fingers under the hem of her sweater.

"No way" she said, squirming under my touch. "I'm tired and I'm a little bit sore and I can't … not again. Maybe tonight … Or more likely tomorrow."

I chuckled. "I wasn't thinking about sex." That was only half true. "Are you getting sick or something? You barely touched your breakfast."

"I'm fine." She shrugged, tapping my nose and laughing when I crossed my eyes at her.

"You shouldn't do that," she told me. "You'll damage your eyes."

"My eyesight is great." I waved her off, and shifted her weight on my thighs. "You sure you're okay?"

She sighed. Looking away from me, she drummed her fingers against the table in an agitated rhythm.

"Bell–"

"Would you stop fussing?" She pushed my hands from her waist and stood up. "You … ugh." Hands on her hips, she tapped her foot a few times.

"I–"

"I wanted to wait until I was certain. Surprise you." She pressed her lips together as she looked at me.

"I think I'm pregnant."

I stared at her. Her lips twitched as she waited for me to make sense of the four words she'd spoken.

"You–" I licked my lips and swallowed hard. "How–" I shook my head. The _how_ was obvious. Around six months ago, we'd decided to, well, take a more lax approach to contraception. We hadn't been actively _trying_ to get pregnant, but we had agreed that if it happened, it happened, and we were ready to be a family.

"I'm not late yet," she said after a few moments. "But …" She pulled her hair from its ponytail and re-tied it. She shrugged. "I'm pretty sure I will be."

"Wow." I shook my head again.

"Would you stop shaking your head, please?" Bella said. "You're making me nervous. I thought we agreed we wanted this."

"No … I mean, yes. Yes. We wanted this. We _want _this." I closed my eyes. "I'm just surprised. It's not – it's not really sinking in. I just … oh my God."

Bella laughed, a short, nervous sound that dragged my gaze back to her face. My stomach flipped and flopped the way it does on a rollercoaster.

I lifted my hand and set my palm against Bella's belly. "Are you–" I swallowed. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure." She smiled down at me, folding her hand over mine. "I guess there's only one way to be positive."

My hands were clammy around the steering wheel as we made the quick trip to the drugstore. _Wait,_ I told myself. _Don't get your hopes up yet_. Beside me, Bella was quiet, seemingly lost in her own world as she stared out the window.

Three minutes might as well have been three hours as we sat staring at the plastic stick pinched between Bella's fingertips. The whir of the exhaust fan seemed too loud in the tiled space. "I'm going to disconnect that thing," I muttered.

Bella frowned. "Huh?"

"I'll get Jamie to come over, wire it to its own switch. So it doesn't come on just because the light is on."

Bella nodded, but she wasn't listening. Her gaze flicked from the timer she'd set on her phone to the test in her hand.

"It's positive," she said, setting the stick on the bathroom counter.

"Positive?"

"Positive."

With that word, the strings of my self-restraint were snipped away. My heart ballooned, as if it were floating away from its anchor in my chest, but getting stuck in my throat, making it impossible to speak.

She caught my eyes in the mirror. For a few minutes, we simply stared, searching each other's faces, desperate to know what was passing through the other's mind.

I cracked first. "I'm going to be a dad?" The words hung in the air, growing, filling the space between us.

Bella turned to face me, her smile wide and her dark eyes wet with tears. The joy I expected, but the awe I was feeling caught me by surprise.

I knew almost everything there was to be known about Bella, from how many pieces of toast she ate for breakfast (four and a half—she always thought she wanted another piece, then couldn't finish it) to the strange way she clasped her bra (she did it up under her breasts and then shimmied it around to put the straps on). And pregnancy is an entirely natural process, one I'd studied and seen in all its stages. Yet in that moment, knowing that Bella was carrying _our _child, a little person somehow knit together from her and me, and the love we shared, it seemed a strange miracle—_she_ seemed a strange miracle.

"You're going to be a daddy," she said, her voice breaking a little. "I'm going …" She shook her head. "I'm going to be a mommy."

And then she was in my arms and we were laughing and crying and though we were shocked and still half unable to believe, we were so utterly convinced that this was just so _right_.

* * *

"Apparently doctors have some ridiculous way of calculating how pregnant you are," Bella told me, when she returned from her first appointment. "They said I'm five weeks pregnant."

"Already?"

"Yeah. Apparently they count it from the first day of your last period."

"Oh, right." I nodded. "Yeah, they do that."

"It doesn't make any sense. If I had my period, I clearly wasn't pregnant." She giggled. "Whatever. I'm two weeks more pregnant than I thought I was. I'm excited. We just got two weeks closer to meeting baby."

Later that week, winter arrived early. The temperature dropped, heavy clouds swept in from the west, and the rain started.

Throwing the crossword puzzle I was trying, and failing, to finish onto the coffee table, I watched the raindrops slam into the window and slide to the ground. The garden beyond the glass was a blur of greens and greys. Thunder rumbled in the distance, barely audible over the soft music drifting from the speakers. Bella had put on some cello concerto—she'd read that babies should be exposed to classical music, so she'd gone out and purchased a bunch of CDs during the week.

"Should we start telling everyone?"

Bella set the magazine she was reading on the arm of the sofa, her eyes moving to the window, as she disappeared into what I mentally called her thinking space. Early on in our relationship, I used to get annoyed, thinking she was ignoring me when I'd ask a question and her gaze would drift over my head. I'd since realized it's just a habit she has when pondering something.

"Maybe at, I don't know … twelve weeks … even a bit later?" She met my eyes again. "I don't – I just want to keep it special, just between us. For now. You know?"

"Okay." I knew exactly what she meant, and I was a little bit relieved. To be honest, I was unsure I was ready to deal with my mother's excitement.

Apparently, Bella's mind was running in the same direction. "Like, if we tell our parents, you know both our moms are going to start dropping by and calling up and fussing and it'll drive me absolutely crazy."

That was true. Mom and Renée are really similar, almost scarily so, and they're both very different from Bella. They thrive on conversation and company, on constant activity. My fiancée on the other hand, needs periods of quiet and solitude or she gets stressed out. It's probably one of the reasons we work so well together—Bella copes easily with an empty house, and the strange hours nursing requires me to keep.

Lifting her feet onto my lap, Bella looked at me. "Are you okay with waiting to tell them? Because if you want to–"

"Let's wait," I said. "I, well, I kinda want …" I shook my head, grappling for the right words. "Once we tell them, it's all in, you know? It's everyone's excitement then … as it should be, I guess. I don't know. But I kind of like it being just _our_ excitement, for now. It feels special." I shrugged, looking at my hands.

Bella pushed them out of her way and settled herself on my lap. "Exactly," she said, tucking her head under my chin.

"So, what are you reading?" I reached across the couch for the magazine she'd discarded.

"Just some stuff about how to choose a stroller," she said. "I don't know, it's probably a little premature."

I shrugged. "No harm in being prepared."

* * *

"I don't like the yellow," Bella decided, tipping her head and squinting at the stripes of color we'd painted on the wall. "I prefer the mint."

She lifted her arms over her head, stretching. Her shirt rode up to reveal a sliver of belly. At almost fourteen weeks, her stomach was still flat, though she insisted she _felt_ like her waist had expanded hugely. I'm not sure how that was possible, seeing as she still fit into all her clothes easily enough.

"Really?" I scratched my jaw. "I don't know. It reminds me of toothpaste."

"Toothpaste?" Bella scoffed.

I shrugged. "I don't know. I think the lemony yellow is happier, you know? More vibrant or something."

"The mint is more calming. This is where baby will sleep. It needs to be soothing, not stimulating."

"You do realize," I said, wiping my paint-spattered finger on the sleeve of my shirt, "that babies can't see color when they're first born?"

Lips pursed, eyebrows lifted, Bella folded her arms. "I do realize that," she said. "I may not have the experience and training you do, but I do know how to use the internet. Regardless, I don't see how that helps your case. We're not repainting when baby gets a bit older and suddenly won't sleep during the day because the paint on the walls is too … energizing."

I scratched my scalp, squinting at the paint samples. "We could wait until we find out the sex. Then go with blue or pink."

"What? And reinforce gender stereotypes from birth? Fantastic idea, Edward."

"Bella …" I sighed, rubbing at my forehead. She wasn't actually angry, but I wasn't in the mood for an argument, no matter how playful.

"You have paint in your hair," she told me.

I looked up. "Really?"

"Yep – oh." She giggled. "And you just wiped it all over your forehead."

"Great." Heaving a sigh, I chucked my paintbrush into the drip tray. Turning away from Bella, I reached for the hem of my shirt.

"Wait."

I turned back. Bella's lip was between her teeth as she looked from me to the stripes of paint on the wall.

"What, Bel?"

"Let's sleep on it," she said, her voice soft. "Or wait until the weather clears up, maybe. We'll see what they all look like in sunlight, okay?"

I nodded, relieved to shelve this argument for the day. "Sure. It's not like we don't have time."

* * *

The rain still hadn't cleared up two days later, when Bella's voice wobbled through the closed bathroom door, pulling me out of bed. "Edward. I need you."

The shake in her voice was my first clue that something wasn't right. The second was the fact she called me into the bathroom while she was using the toilet.

Even after living together for more than three years, Bella was still shy about certain bodily functions. No matter how many times I told her that peeing and farting were completely natural, or that I'd seen so much urine and shit in the years I'd been nursing that nothing could possibly turn me off, she would freak out if I walked into the bathroom while she was doing her business. Even when she took the pregnancy test, she made me wait outside until she'd finished peeing.

"You okay, babe?" I hesitated at the door, my hand on the knob.

She sniffled. "No."

When I pushed open the door, I saw the tears tracking down my Bella's cheeks, and the crimson stain on her panties where they were twisted between her ankles, and I knew.

I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sick feeling churning my stomach. I grappled for the professional detachment that I relied on when situations got critical in the hospital. It was nowhere to be found. And how could it be? How could I switch off the grief that threatened to choke me as I looked into Bella's face and saw the fear and despair there?

"It could just be spotting. It might not …" I let the empty words trail away. They would bring her no comfort.

There was too much blood.

The fluorescent light flickered above us. Bella had been asking me to change it for weeks, but the damn tubes are expensive, so I'd been putting it off.

"Do we … do we need to go to the hospital?" Her voice was quiet, her heartbreak audible.

"Yeah, we do, sweetheart. I'm so sorry." More empty words. But they were all I had.

I held her hand and we cried when the doctor in the ER shook his head sadly and confirmed what we'd suspected.

Bella closed her eyes. I could feel her hand shaking in mine.

"Because you were more than fourteen weeks along, I'd prefer you to have a dilation and curettage than wait for your body to deal with the miscarriage on its own. It's your choice, but that's my recommendation."

As a scrub nurse, I'd held the hands of numerous women as they came in for the same procedure. More than once, their sorrow had brought the sting of tears to my own eyes. But standing by Bella's bed, holding her hand as she was put under general anaesthetic … I wasn't sure we'd ever be whole again.

When we returned home, there was a silence between us. It grew over the days that followed, an empty space that stretched between us. I hated it, but how I could I force closeness? How could I ask her to talk to me? To look at me? To touch me?

So I followed Bella's lead and stayed quiet, and with each hour, each day, the distance grew and seemed more impossible to breach. Even in our bed at night, the few feet of space between us seemed like miles. My chest felt tight constantly, as though Bella had set her palm to my sternum and was physically pushing me away from her.

I assumed Bella was taking what she needed—distance, silence, solitude. I figured that was her way of dealing with our loss, and I let her have what I thought she wanted.

And then, on a Tuesday morning, about three months after we'd returned from the hospital with empty arms, the light bulb blew while Bella was in the shower.

I rushed into the bathroom, still half-asleep and wearing only my boxers, when I heard her shouting. A cloud of steam whooshed out the door as I wrenched it open.

"How many times have I fucking asked you to change it? I told you. I told you this would happen."

Standing on the bathmat with her wet hair nearly black and water dripping down her body, she aimed a finger at me. "I asked you to change it months ago. Months. But no, you couldn't get off your ass and just _do_ it. What if I'd been shaving? What if I'd cut myself? Or what if I'd fallen over? You're so … you're so …" She shook her head, tears chasing the water that dripped from her hair to her chin.

I grabbed a towel and held it out to her.

"Bella."

She stepped into the towel, when I closed my arms around her, she didn't push me away. She collapsed into me, the moisture from her wet body soaking through the towel and dampening my skin.

"I'm sorry for shouting," she said, her voice cracking. "I just … I just …" She shook her head, crying quietly against my chest.

And as much as the sound of her grief made me ache, there was relief, too. Relief that, though I was powerless to take away her pain, she was letting me hold her as she cried. I could support her, physically, and keep her on her feet as she sagged against me. It felt like progress.

I don't know how long we stood in the semi-dark, Bella crying, me blinking away my own tears. The steam had dissipated and the mirror unfogged when she finally pulled back, looking up at me with sore, red eyes. Tears clung to her eyelashes, her nose was running, and her mouth curved down. It hurt to see, to look her pain in the face and know there was nothing I could do to take it away.

Bella sniffled, her gaze shifting. "What's this?" She traced the line of black ink circling my bicep. It wasn't too thick, maybe about half an inch wide.

I cleared my throat as guilt ricocheted through my insides like a pinball. "I, uh … I'm sorry."

She pulled back a little, frowning up at me. In the dim bathroom, her eyes looked black. "Mourning?"

I nodded, the words caught in my throat.

"I would've come with you," she said, and I could hear the hurt in her voice.

It hadn't even crossed my mind to ask her.

She stepped out of my arms and pulled the towel tight around chest, tucking a corner in to keep it in place. I trailed after her as she walked into the bedroom, cursing myself for my self-centeredness.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she looked up at me. "Why?"

I knelt down in front of her, my hands on her knees. "About three weeks after …"

She nodded, and though she knew what I meant, I forced myself to say the words, to let myself speak all the words and feelings that had become so jumbled up inside of me. "Three weeks after we lost the baby, I … well, I just had this feeling that – I don't know how to explain it." I pulled my hands away, crossing them over my chest.

"I started to wonder if it had even been real – not because I wasn't feeling the pain of it, God knows I was. But … because the baby was with us for such a short time. Like, w-we'd barely even been able to comprehend what was happening before it was snatched away. And I hated it. I hated that feeling … the temporality." I shook my head, frustrated at the way the words seemed so inadequate.

"So I had to – I wanted to do something to make it real, permanent. Our child was taken from us before we even got to hold him or her, but that excitement and joy we felt—and then the pain and grief—it was real, all of it, and I wanted to …" I trailed off, wondering if I'd made any sense at all.

Bella wiped her eyes, sniffling. "I understand," she said, her voice breaking.

She was quiet for a long time, and when she spoke, her words were like being doused with ice cold water. "Do you blame me? Is–"

"Of course not." _How could she even think that? _

I felt her fingertip trace across my tattoo again. "You didn't talk to me. Why d-didn't you talk to me? You barely look at me." Her voice grew higher and more strained. "The doctor cleared me a month ago to have sex again and you haven't even tried to touch me. You're so far away, and I–I've needed you. I need you."

_I am an idiot. I've made this so much worse, thinking I was giving her what she wanted, what she needed. _

"Bella–"

She continued, her voice breaking. "Maybe it was my fault. Maybe it w-was that … that piece of brie I ate two days before? Or maybe it was because I–"

"No."

"You don't even know–"

I cut her off again, my voice hard. "No."

Her lips pressed together, she looked at her hands as tears dripped into her lap.

I took a deep breath and pushed myself to my feet. Sitting beside her on the bed, I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't resist as I pulled her close. "Sweetheart, no. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't mine. It wasn't because of the cheese, or the vacuuming, or the painting, or because we had too much sex, or because of anything you did, or anything I did. There is – it's just …"

I shook my head. "There's no reason, baby, and I know it sucks, and I know it hurts. But it – it just happened because it happened."

"You d-don't … you … but I failed, Edward. How can I ever be a mom when I've failed before I've even started?"

I grabbed her chin, trapping her gaze. I was careful not to hurt her, but I needed her to hear me.

"You. Have. Not. Failed."

"But–"

"No. This is not your fault, and it's not mine." Tears started to slip down my cheeks. "But I'm so sorry, Bella. I'm s-so fucking sorry."

We held each other and talked and cried, sharing all the thoughts we'd kept hidden from each other, until we fell asleep, our ankles tangled and Bella's head on my chest.

One small step forward.

* * *

And now, running my hands over Bella's back in the quiet of the early morning, I know.

There is a child growing in her womb. And though I'm terrified, though I try to beat it away, I'm powerless against the joy I can feel swelling inside me, constricting my lungs and speeding my heart.

_Bella's pregnant. _

* * *

**A/N: ****To all those of you who have experienced the pain and grief of losing a child - I am truly sorry that you know this heartbreak. My heart goes out to you.**

**To BelieveItOrNot - thank you. You know how much your advice, honesty, encouragement and friendship mean to me.**

**Thank you all so much for reading. **

**Shell x **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

* * *

_Bella's pregnant. _

We knew this was a possibility. When we reached for each other for the first time after her miscarriage, I asked her if she wanted me to wear a condom. She said no.

And though we knew then what we were doing, what we were agreeing to, neither of us ever spoke the word "try."

* * *

**Six Months Ago.**

"Can we talk?" Bella sat me down at the kitchen table, her voice quiet.

The way Bella was perched right on the edge of her chair, her weight on her toes, made me second guess how much progress we'd made in the week since we'd finally opened up to each other.

She didn't look at me as I answered.

"Of course." I gave her a small smile she didn't see.

She twisted a curl around her finger, her eyes darting from the refrigerator, plastered with photos of friends and family and a few designs for wedding dresses which she'd torn from magazines, to the vase of purple flowers on the table. With sunlight drenching the room, long, floral shadows spread across the scarred wood between us.

Bella sighed as she pushed her hair over her shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

She traced a fingertip around the edge of a flower's silhouette before finally bringing her gaze to mine. "I– um … I want to go see – to talk with a counselor."

I reached across the table and captured her hand. "Okay." I rubbed my thumb across her knuckles. "Whatever you need, okay? If you think that will be helpful, then you know I'll support you."

She nodded. "I know. I think I need some help, to process everything, you know? To work through everything that's still a big jumbled mess here–" she tapped her temple "–and here." She pressed her hand to her chest.

"Yeah, for sure. That makes sense."

She rolled her shoulders and licked her lips. "I – Will you come … I think, it would be good. For both of us."

My thumb froze, my grip on her hand loosening. _She thinks I need to see a shrink?_

"I–" _I don't want to._ The answer was on the tip of my tongue.

"Just …" She twisted her hand so her fingers were clasped around mine, her thumb stroking my knuckles. "I know it doesn't sound like fun. And you don't have to come, like, every single time. But there are probably some things … it might be easier to talk through some stuff with someone objective there."

I pulled my hand from Bella's and hunched forward in my chair, elbows resting on my knees. I watched the late spring sunshine scattering across the floor as the tree outside the window swayed in the afternoon breeze.

_She wants me to see a counselor. Why? Does she think I'm not coping?_

Why was I fine with the idea of Bella going, but when she suggested I come, too, it was suddenly harder to breathe? Why were my palms growing clammy? Why did the collar of my shirt feel too tight?

"Edward …"

Squeezing my eyes closed, I tried to focus, to weigh up the merit of her idea.

"Um–"

"I know it sounds horrible," she said. "I–I don't really want to go either."

I looked up at her, surprised. "Then, why?"

Her smile was small and sad. "I guess … It's going to be hard. I imagine it's like … like reopening a wound that's started closing, you know? Painful. I don't want to do it, not at all." She sighed, lacing her fingers together. "But I suppose, I want to check that there's nothing festering in that wound. Nothing that will infect it, and then cause it to burst open months, years down the track."

I slumped back in my chair, my eyes on the ceiling as a small face surfaced in my memories.

The kid's name was Liam—"short for William," he'd told me, his big, brown eyes blinking fast as he fought back tears. He was one of the last kids I saw in the ER—I started my current job in the OR about a week later.

Little Liam had come off his bike, and scrapes down the right side of his body were bleeding through his clothes. I could almost still smell the iodine and bleach as I remembered holding his shaking arm and cleaning the dirt and gravel from the wound—it probably hurt the poor guy more than the original injury did.

"It stings," he said, losing his fight with his tears.

"I know, dude. I'm sorry."

"Do you have to do that to my leg, too?"

I crouched down to his eye level. "Yeah, I do. And I know it sucks, buddy. But I've got to make sure it's all clean so it can get better properly. So it doesn't get infected, okay?"

He screwed up his face, nodding, even as more tears spilled down his dirt-smudged cheeks.

I blinked, focusing my gaze on the cobweb that sprawled from the light fixture to the corner of the room.

Bella was right. Cleaning up, dealing with things as soon as possible was safer than letting them fester unchecked.

So I shoved my pride away, and I took her hand and nodded. "Okay."

* * *

And even after six months of therapy, there's a hole in each of our hearts that will never really be filled. We'll both grieve our child for the rest of our lives, in our own ways.

Bella's predicted due date, a blue-sky, perfect Summer's day, was particularly difficult. As Bella confessed, her voice muffled by the comforter she was hiding beneath, in some ways, it felt like losing our baby all over again, marking the date we ought to have been meeting our child.

There have been times when I've watched a new father cradling his child as he and his wife made their slow way out of the hospital foyer, their smiles exhausted but beaming, or when I've prepped a woman for a C-section, reassuring her that she won't be in pain, and reminding her that she's about to meet her child, and I've felt a flare of jealousy and resentment. A reaction which is childish and ugly—a reaction I'm ashamed of. And I've had to remind myself that they might know loss as intimately as we do, and that even if they don't, their happiness is not undeserved.

And there are still times when guilt creeps back under my skin and it's hard to remember that there is no rhyme or reason to loss, and there is no one to blame.

As I continue to stroke her skin, Bella stirs but doesn't speak.

Tentatively, I move the circles I'm tracing on her stomach higher, brushing across her bare breasts, my thumbs rubbing across her nipples. Her breathing falters as she pushes her butt back against me, squirming, letting me know she's awake and answering my unspoken question.

I cup her breast and she stiffens. "They're a bit sore," she mumbles into her pillow.

I add another symptom to my list.

"Sorry." I press a kiss to her shoulder, trailing my fingertips across her skin, feeling her nipples harden. "That feel okay?"

Bella hums, arching her back. "More."

Obliging, I keep my touch gentle and teasing as I play with her breasts, moving my attention from one to the other, and smiling against the smooth skin of her shoulder as she whines and pushes her chest forward, wanting more.

Bella reaches back, her fingers winding into my hair. "Stop teasing me," she says, her voice raspy with sleep and desire.

I move my hand lower, but she wraps her fingers around my wrist, stilling me. "No. I just want you."

She wriggles around under her mountain of blankets until I give her enough space to roll onto her back. "Come here," she tells me.

Settling myself between her parted thighs, I trail kisses up her neck and across her forehead. I want to kiss her mouth, but I know her too well. She worries about the staleness of her breath in the morning, and I've learned not to push.

I kiss her cheek and the corner of her mouth, grinning when I feel her smile.

"I love you," she mumbles, tilting her pelvis.

Without even knowing it, she gives me what I need. I need those words. I need the closeness of making love to her, of feeling her heartbeat against my chest, her breath on my neck, our fingers tangled and her legs wrapped around my hips.

"I love you, too," I tell her, rocking slowly until our bodies are joined.

We move together, the sounds of gasped breaths soft in the dawn, until we tumble into our release.

When we move apart, Bella reaches for some tissues, and we clean up, before she pulls the comforter up around her chin and yawns. Smiling, I kiss her temple and slide my arm across her waist.

Bella drifts off almost immediately, her breathing slow and even, but though my body is limp with residual endorphins, I can't seem to fall back into unconsciousness.

My mind continues to race, worry and hope colliding and becoming tangled until I'm not sure what it is I'm feeling.

Unwinding myself from Bella, I slip out of bed and pull on a pair of sweatpants.

I ignore the closed, white door across the hall from our room, and make my way to the kitchen, flicking on the coffee machine and sliding open the kitchen window. Cool air carries the scent of imminent rain into the house, dragging goosebumps across my chest and arms.

I grab the sweater I left on the couch the previous evening and pull it over my head, before ducking out the front door to collect the papers.

Once the coffee is brewed, I pour a cup and open up to the crossword. I need the distraction.

It's three-quarters solved when Bella shuffles out of the bedroom, her curly hair a mess and her cheek creased with the imprint of her pillow. She leans down to kiss me, smelling of minty toothpaste and whatever it is she uses on her face in the morning.

"Morning," she says.

"Good morning?" I quirk a brow at her and she giggles.

"A very good morning."

She frowns at me as she moves behind the counter, pulling a mug from the cupboard and filling up the kettle.

"You should be wearing these." She tosses my glasses' case at me.

I scrunch up my nose at her. "I don't like them. They make my ears hurt."

She pulls out a herbal tea bag and swings it into her mug. "You'll get used to them." There's a small smile playing around her lips as she fills her cup with boiling water. It doesn't escape me that she's ignoring the pot of coffee I left on the counter.

Sighing, I put the stupid black frames on. The newsprint _is_ a lot clearer now.

Bella sits down beside me and looks over my shoulder. "Eleven across is ceremonial."

I shake my head at her. Irritatingly clever, beautiful woman that she is.

* * *

For the next two days, every time I walk in or out of our bedroom, morning or night, the white door to the room across the hall—the room that was supposed to be the nursery—seems to loom larger. Twice, I set my hand to the doorknob before pulling away.

But on Tuesday afternoon, Bella comes home from work and dives straight into the shower—she took a pilates class after she left the office and nothing I can say will convince her to even have a drink with me before she washes.

"Seriously, Edward. I stink so bad. I'm making myself feel sick."

I laugh and shake my head, then grab a clean towel out of the linen closet for her when I remember I forgot to hang some clean ones out when I washed the old ones this morning.

As I wander out of our bedroom, I'm once again drawn to the door across the hall.

Biting my lip, I crack open the door, and my stomach sinks. My gaze is drawn to the opposite wall, to the greens and yellows striped unevenly there. Even though we argued over the colors, I remember the underlying joy, the feeling of anticipation that lingered.

Stepping into the room, I leave the light switched off. A sliver of fading daylight slips in from under a blind that hasn't been pulled the whole way down.

Can I let myself get excited about this? Can I let my hope build and my dreams grow, and can I let myself start wondering if the baby will have Bella's brown eyes and curly hair?

And then, as I'm picturing a chubby toddler sitting on Bella's lap, I realize I'm already there.

I know there's only a limited period of time before she realizes she's pregnant. When was her last period? I rack my brain, but I've got nothing. She complained about cramps at some point and I know I filled up a hot water bottle and brought her a few Midol tablets. When was that? Two weeks ago? Three?

Was it longer than that? Was it more than four weeks ago?

I don't think it was, but it's possible. Dates tend to blur when my roster has me flipping between day and night shifts like I have been for the last couple of months.

It occurs to me that maybe she's already late, but she hasn't said anything to me because she's scared.

I brush away the prickle of hurt. _I_ know, and I haven't said anything to her.

Sighing, I move to the window. I run a finger across the sill, watching the dust gather into a fuzzy, grey ball at my touch. After we came home from the hospital, I closed this door, and as far as I'm aware, neither of us have opened up the room since.

It smells kind of stale in here.

My hand shakes as I tug on the blinds, and I squint as light invades the room. When I slide open the window, crisp fall air rushes into the room, stirring up the dust. I tuck my nose against my shoulder to muffle my sneeze.

"Edward?"

Shit.

_Man up_, I tell myself.

"I'm in here."

My eyes on the doorway, I watch until Bella shuffles into view, her dark eyes wary. She glances around the room, her hands tightening into fists.

"What …" She shakes her head, and though she doesn't meet my gaze, I can read her guilt in the way she licks her lips, in the way she doesn't just ask me why I'm in here.

She knows.

"I – Bella?"

She looks up, her expression begging me to understand.

I step toward her, reaching for her. She hesitates, but lets me snag her hand.

"Are you late?"

She shakes her head. "Not yet."

"But you know?"

She nods, coiling her shower-damp hair around her index finger. "At least, I'm pretty sure."

I want to ask her when she realized, but it doesn't matter. There are other things to worry about. "What … Do we … Should we …"

She tugs at her hair. "I bought a couple of tests on my way home this afternoon. I - uh … will you come sit with me?"

"You want me to sit with you while you pee?"

Her smile is small, but it's there. "Of course not," she says. "That's gross. But after."

I pull her into my arms, pressing my lips to her temple. "Of course I will."

So I stand outside while she pees on the little stick, and when I hear the toilet flush I slip into the bathroom. Bella holds my gaze through the mirror as she washes her hands. She looks nervous.

"Three minutes," she tells me. I glance at my watch.

Moving behind her as she dries her hands, I place my hands on her hips and kiss her neck. "I love you."

She leans back, tipping her head to look up at me. "I love you, too."

We sway together, my chin on Bella's shoulder, each second seeming to drag its ass as we wait.

"Time," I say.

Before Bella reaches for the stick, I grab her hand and spin her around so we're face to face. "Sweetheart, no matter what …" I shake my head. I don't know how to articulate what I want her to know.

"Hey," she says. "It's okay." She stands on tiptoe and kisses me hard, and it feels like she's trying to tell me that thing I can't put into words with her lips and tongue.

Pulling away, she picks up the stick but doesn't look at it. Instead, she hands it to me. It's shaking. No, my hands are shaking. I flip it over and blink. "Two lines means positive, right?"

Bella grabs it from me. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah. Positive." She looks up at me, and her eyes are shining with tears.

"Are you okay?"

Blinking hard she nods. "Yeah. I am." She scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip. "Are you?"

"I think so." I can't really be sure. I mean, I'm ecstatic … and terrified.

Bella tosses the pregnancy test into the trash can.

"You don't want …"

"What?" She huffs a laugh. "To keep it? Ew, Edward. I peed on it."

Taking my hand she pulls me out to the living room. She flicks on the lights and pushes me toward the couch. "Sit. Talk."

I'm caught by surprise. "What?"

Bella sighs as she sits down beside me. "You knew. How?"

"Your skin." I trail my fingers across her cheek. "It's crazy-soft. And your hair's all shiny. And your breasts are sore, and you haven't been drinking coffee."

She chuckles. "I can't complain that you don't pay attention, can I?"

That makes me smile. Bella seems relaxed, happy. The words blurt from my mouth. "How are you so calm about this? Aren't you … Are you scared?"

Her smile fades, and I wish I could swallow the words back down. She turns toward me and tents her knees over my lap. Like magnets are pulling them, I place my hands on her ankles, sliding them under her jeans, rubbing circles around the knobbly bones.

"Yeah, a bit," she says. "But when we … well, when we started having sex again and we decided not to use protection, I talked with Tanya about it—about what it would mean for me, for you, for us, when or if I got pregnant again."

_Huh._ I didn't even really think to bring that up with Dr. Denali.

"I'm trying to be positive," she says. "Realistic, but positive. I did some research. One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. And though some women do have two miscarriages—or more—it's actually quite rare."

She wriggles a little, kicking her feet until I get the hint to start rubbing them. "So, yeah. I'm scared. Losing another baby, I just … I can't fathom it. But I'm also excited." Her smile starts small, but grows quickly, lifting her cheeks and squinting her eyes. "Like, really, really excited. We're going to have a baby, Edward."

Speechless, my heart banging around in my chest like it's trying to escape, I drag Bella onto my lap and fasten my lips to hers. She moans into my kiss and the sound ignites something inside me.

Tugging at each other's clothes, tripping over our own feet, we stumble into our bedroom, naked by the time Bella's knees hit the end of the mattress.

Hands find fistfuls of hair, our kisses are hard and demanding, as we work ourselves into a kind of frenzy. As our bodies move together, it feels as though satiation is impossible. I can never get enough of the taste of her lips, her skin, of being inside her, of making her gasp like that and moan like this.

Eventually, Bella pushes me off her, swearing under her breath. She shoves at me until I roll onto my back. "Driving me crazy," she mutters as she starts moving over me. Her eyes closed, her head thrown back, she takes what she needs from my body, and it's glorious to watch.

My teeth gritted, I barely manage to hold myself back until she wilts against me, her mouth falling open. I follow her over the edge with a groan.

Breathing heavily, I smile when, her head heavy on my chest, Bella starts giggling.

"That was pretty amazing."

"Uh-huh."

After a few minutes, Bella wriggles off me, and bounces off the bed. She ducks into our bathroom and I stare at the ceiling, forcing my eyes to stay open while she cleans up.

She ignores my raised arm when she climbs back onto the bed. Sitting cross legged, she scoops my sweater off the floor and pulls it on. "Why didn't you tell me you knew?"

I run my hand through my sweat damp hair. Honestly is the best policy, I figure. "I was worried … about how you would feel about it. I–I just don't want to see you hurting that way again."

Bella presses her lips together, looking at me thoughtfully.

"I want to be annoyed at you," she says. "But I can't, because I didn't tell you right away, for exactly the same reason."

It takes a moment for what she's saying to sink in. "You were worried about me hurting?"

Bella nods, her fingers tracing the line of ink that circles my bicep. "You're don't have the market cornered on feeling protective, you know."

"I–" _have no idea what to say to that._

My fiancée smiles small. "But I'd decided to tell you tonight. Even if you hadn't been in the nursery, I would have told you."

I grab her hand from where it's resting on my arm and set it over my heart. She's got to be able to feel the way it's pounding, the hope and love and joy that are filling my chest and making it hard for me to speak. I manage to choke out the words. "I love you."

"I know," she says, her eyes full of happiness. "Hey, Edward?"

I lift my eyebrows.

"We're having a baby."

* * *

**A/N: Oh my gosh. I'm completely humbled and overwhelmed by your kind reviews. I'm heartbroken, too, by the stories you have shared with me. So many of you know this pain intimately - having suffered the loss of a child through miscarriages, stillbirth, or child death. My heart goes out to you all.**

**My sincerest apologies that I haven't replied to every review. I do cherish every single one of them.**

**Thank you all so much for reading.**

**To BelieveItOrNot - you are sunshine, smiles, hot cups of tea, and my toes in the ocean. **

**Shell x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3.**

* * *

"I thought you'd be home before me." I'm at the door to greet Bella, reaching for her laptop bag. A gust of cold air follows her in, and I slam the door shut with my hip.

"So did I," she says, pulling off her knitted cap and combing her fingers through her hair. "They were running more than forty-five minutes late. If I'd realized just how behind they were, I would've texted you, and you could've met me there after work."

I shrug. "Doctors, hey?"

It had been a full week before Bella could get an appointment, which had annoyed me, even though I knew it was pretty normal. I'd also been annoyed that I hadn't been able to get anyone to cover my shift for me so I could go along with her.

She told me not to worry about that. "Baby, there're going to be so many more appointments we're going to have to go to over the next few months—blood tests, check-ups, ultrasounds, prenatal classes …" She sighed, like it was a drag. "You'll get sick of tagging along."

"As if," I said. "I can't wait."

She laughed.

I watch her unwind her scarf. She dumps the pile of rainbow-colored wool on top of her handbag and starts unbuttoning her coat. "Well?"

"Well." She aims a playful kick at me when I bend down to try to take her boots off. "I'm pregnant. Not an invalid."

"Anything else?"

"I peed in a cup and then had an appointment with a vampire."

Bella hates having blood taken.

"Are you okay?" I study her face. She looks a little pale, but definitely not that peculiar shade of green-grey she turns after fainting.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She scrunches up her nose and hands me her coat. "I warned them, so they got me to lie down. And after, the nurse gave me a lemonade and told me not to get up for fifteen minutes."

I nod. "Good."

"Five weeks," she tells me.

"Wow." I try to brush away the prickle of sadness. We've been here before.

Bella sets her boots on the rack by the door, then turns to me with a small, sad smile. "I know," she says. "When I couldn't get in last week I figured it would mean I'd be about five weeks, and I … it's hard, isn't it? Hearing the same news. If it had been four weeks, it would have felt, well, less like déjà vu, I guess."

"Yeah."

She steps into my open arms, and I rest my chin on her head. The tip of her nose is cold against my collarbone, her curls tickle my chin.

"But you know what?" she says, her voice muffled against my chest. "We're a week closer to meeting baby than we were last week."

_And we're a week closer to being out of the first trimester_, I think.

I kiss her temple. "You hungry? I made a chicken tagine and some spiced couscous."

"You did?" She looks up at me, her lip between her teeth.

"Uh-huh. I know you hate the smell of raw meat at the moment, and you weren't here. So I … this way you can eat it without having to prepare it." That's only part of the reason. I needed the distraction. I was driving myself crazy stressing about why she wasn't home yet, and whether everything was okay with the baby. _She'll call if there's something wrong_, I had to remind myself more than once.

She presses a kiss to my throat. "Thank you."

As I unwind my arms from around her, Bella tightens her hold on me.

One hand on her shoulder, I cup my other under her chin so I can see her face. I ask a stupid question. "Are you okay?"

It's stupid, because I can see the answer staring back at me in her wide eyes and pale face. _She's terrified._

I don't wait for her to speak, pulling her close again, wishing I could pull her right inside me and keep her there, keep her safe. Wishing I could tell her everything is going to be okay.

But I can't make that promise.

In the last few years I've seen so much evidence of the fragility of life, of just how little control we really have over it. While I've seen my share of miracles, of patients who stubbornly clung to life despite the odds stacked against them, I've also seen lives claimed by the most common and treatable of illnesses. People still die from influenza and the common fucking cold. People still don't make it through the most routine surgeries.

I thought I'd come to terms with it. With how loose our hold on life really is. With what little it takes for a heart to cease beating. But when it's my fiancée, and my child—it's a lot harder to swallow.

So I say nothing. I just hold her close, our growing child sandwiched between us, and all I can do is _hope_.

And that's the thing about hope. It can be as strong as steel cables, or as fragile as spider's silk, but when you take hold of it, it's enough to keep your head above water. It's enough to keep you out of that dark pit of despair.

Minutes pass. We stand in our entryway, arms so tight around each other. Taking and giving strength. Together.

Eventually, Bella sniffles. "Thank you," she says and steps back, her dark eyes full of the words she's not saying. "I really needed that hug."

My finger crooked under her chin, I kiss her softly. "So did I."

* * *

A few weeks later, I'm dragged out of a heavy sleep by the sound of Bella retching.

I'm barely awake as I stumble into the bathroom.

"You should be asleep," Bella rasps from the floor. Her arms rest on the toilet seat, and her face is a pale as the porcelain. "You only got home an hour ago."

"I–"

She vomits again. Leaning down, I gather her messy hair and pull it away from her face. There's a hair tie on the vanity, so I reach for that and tie the best ponytail I can manage.

I rub her back as she continues to heave.

"Ugh." She groans, sitting back on her heels. "I need to shower."

Helping her to her feet, I keep one arm around her waist as I turn the taps on in the shower.

When I start stripping off my sweatpants, she shakes her head and pushes at my chest. "What if I vomit in there?"

I smile. "You think I haven't been vomited on before?"

Bella steps into the shower while I grab her toothbrush and put some paste on it. I flick on the exhaust fan and follow her into the shower. She smiles weakly when I slide the glass door closed, trapping the warmth and steam in with us.

It becomes a bit of a pattern for us for the next few weeks—when I'm not at work in the early morning, anyway. I wake up to Bella hurling, we shower together, and I feel bad that she has to deal with all the crappy side-effects of pregnancy.

She shrugs when I mention this one morning. "You know," she says, pointing her toothbrush at me. "I'd happily do without the morning sickness, but there is one positive to it."

"There is?"

She smiles at me. "It means I'm still pregnant, you know? It sucks, totally. But I didn't have it last time, and yeah, I guess there's something kinda reassuring about it."

The little crack of vulnerability, spoken through her smile, slices through me—it causes a real, tangible, ache in my chest. Moving behind her, I set my hands on her hips, and kiss her neck. "I love you."

I'm in awe of her. She's so fucking strong.

She pushes my face away, her nose scrunched up. "Don't kiss me. I haven't showered yet and I'm gross."

I nibble on her earlobe. "Don't care."

She pushes me again. "I do."

"Bella–"

"No, really." She throws her toothbrush into the sink, and shoves me away. I finally catch on when she lifts the lid of the toilet and vomits again.

* * *

I heave a sigh as I throw my wallet and keys onto the sideboard next to Bella's sunglasses. I toe off my shoes and rub the heel of my hand into my forehead as I yawn.

"Bel?"

Silence.

I check the bedroom first, thinking she might be napping, but the bed is all crisp lines and smooth covers. She's not in the bathroom, or the kitchen. I'm starting to worry when I notice the back door has been left open.

Stepping out into the yard, I find her immediately … twelve feet in the air atop our rusty old ladder.

Squinting up at her—partly in response to the sun setting behind her, and partly because I don't want to look—it takes everything in me not to shout at her to come down. I'm worried I'll startle her and cause her to lose her balance.

"Bella? What're you doing?"

The answer comes from much lower to the ground than I expect, spoken between snaps of gum. "She's getting my frisbee."

I frown at the girl standing at the foot of the ladder, her bare feet covered with dirt and a lock of black hair flopping over her eye. The sleeve of her bright orange t-shirt is torn.

"Hey, Alice."

"Hi, Mr. Cullen."

Pulling my hand through my hair, I chew on my tongue and swallow down my irritation. Probably a bad idea to yell at the neighbors' kid.

"So … uh, your frisbee landed on the roof?"

She nods, looking at the ground. "Sorry. My little brother threw it. We were being kinda crazy."

"It's fine," I tell her. Looking up, I cringe as Bella steps from the top of the ladder onto the roof, disappearing from my view.

"Bella? Why don't you come down? I can get it."

"I'm fine, Edward." Her eye roll is evident in her tone.

"No, really. Come down … please."

A fluorescent green frisbee lands at my feet. "Done."

"Thank you, Mrs. Cullen," Alice said.

Bella's laugh floats down to us. "It's Ms. Swan, Alice. But you can call me Bella. You know that."

Alice's cheeks turn pink. "Yes, Ms. Bella. Thank you."

"No worries."

Scrubbing a hand across my face, I look up at the edge of the roof. "Would you come down now?"

"Stop worrying."

I shake my head as Bella looks down at me, her lips pursed and eyebrows drawn together.

She climbs down easily enough, chatting to Alice for a few minutes while I pack away the ladder. I'm tempted to lock it in the shed and throw away the key.

Walking back over to where my fiancée stands, I slide an arm around her waist, needing to touch her, to know she is firmly planted on solid ground. Alice's pink cheeks flare brighter and she drops her gaze to the ground.

"I gotta go," she mumbles, waving her frisbee toward her house. "Thanks again for getting this."

"No problem, honey."

Bella follows me back inside, but as soon as she's closed the back door behind us, her smile falls from her lips.

"You're ridiculous," she says, folding her arms across her chest.

"What? I'm not the one who was clambering around on the roof after a damn frisbee."

She shakes her head at me, like she can't believe I don't know why she's pissed off at me, and marches into the kitchen. I trail along behind her, my shoulders sagging with the exhaustion that follows an adrenaline spike.

Bella yanks open the fridge door, setting the photographs and magazine pages ruffling, and pulls out a beer. With a flick of her wrist, she opens it, looking at it for a long moment before she hands it to me. "Asshole."

"Are you mad at me because you can't have a beer?" That isn't entirely my fault, but I imagine it would suck at times.

"No. I'm mad because you're an overprotective asshole."

"I–"

She holds up her hand. _Stop._ "Shut up. Just … I get it. I get that you're worried about the baby. Do you think I'm not? Do you think I'd risk him or her? After … after _before_."

"No. I – Bella …" I set the beer on the counter and reach for her. She steps back and it stings like a slapped cheek.

"How many times have I gone up there? How many times have I been the one to pull the leaves out of the gutters? How many times have I gone up there to get down those kids' frisbees and balls?"

I know the answer is "a lot," but I figure the question is rhetorical.

"And how many times have I fallen?"

Again, rhetorical.

"So don't you come in here and start accusing me of being irresponsible, of being a bad Mommy. Don't you dare."

Shocked, I look at her, trying to figure out how the hell she's jumped from me worrying about her being up a twelve foot ladder to that being an accusation of poor parenting.

"Uh–"

"No. I don't want to talk to you right now."

She stomps out of the kitchen, still muttering under her breath. Bewildered, I bring my beer to my lips. I hear her turn the faucets on in the bathroom, and the splash-splash of the bathtub filling. Deciding it's best to give her some space, and too tired to participate in an argument, I wander into the living room and flick on the television. I surf the channels, trying to find something to distract me, but no matter how hard I try to shove them from my mind, all I can think about are Bella's harsh words.

I take a big gulp of my beer, stifling the burp building in my throat out of habit.

I'm completely lost. How does she hear me say "I want you to be careful," and interpret that as "you're irresponsible?" How does "please come down off the roof," become "you're a bad Mommy?"

I wonder if it was just the crazy pregnancy hormones talking, but immediately I feel guilt and self-disgust curdling in the bottom of my stomach. I feel like a dick.

"_Damned hormonal females. Four of them in one house. It's enough to drive a man to drink."_

"_Esme, get yourself under control. Use your brain, woman."_

"_Kate, I will not have this discussion with you until your judgement is no longer clouded by the premenstrual syndrome you appear to be suffering from." _

"_Edward, don't bother trying to reason with her. You can't have a rational conversation with an over-emotional woman. Claire, go to your room until you've calmed down."_

I take another sip of beer, trying to wash my father's bitter words from my mind, and close my eyes against the memories of hurt painted across my mom and sister's faces.

I swore I'd never be _that _guy, the one who blames his girl's hormones or PMS whenever she loses her temper with him. I swore I'd take a good hard look at myself in those moments, that I'd put myself in her shoes. I promised myself I'd never mock or ignore how Bella felt, the way my father did with my mom.

Setting my beer on the coffee table, I stand up.

"Bella?" I tap my knuckles against the bathroom door. "Can I come in?"

"I don't know. _Can_ you?"

I push open the door. She doesn't tell me to get out, so I perch on the closed toilet seat.

"I'm sorry," I say. I'm still not entirely sure why she's upset, or at least, why she took my words the way she did, but I _am_ sorry for causing her pain.

She shrugs, the water tinkling against the porcelain as she moves. It's growing dim in here so I lean back and flip the light switch. I force my eyes away from her bubble-covered breasts. She doesn't look at me.

"You're going to be a great Mommy, Bella. No." I shake my head. "You _are_ a great Mommy. I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

"Do you mean that?" she says, her voice small.

"Of course. I just …" I tug at my ear, looking for the words I want. "Even when you weren't pregnant, I'd cringe about you being on the roof, right?"

She nods, still not looking at me. "I guess." She drags a fingertip through the bubbles floating on the water's surface.

"Bel, I– When I worry about you, it's not because I think you're weak or incompetent or something. Or because I think you're risking the baby. It's not that. I know you'd never. I just … I mean, if I worry about you driving, it's not because I think you're a bad driver. It's because I know that there are stupid, irresponsible people on the roads, taking unnecessary risks and putting other people's lives in danger."

I push my fingertips into my temple, trying to push away the thought. "I've seen the aftermath, you know? Less often now perhaps, but when I was working in the ER …" I rub a few more circles on my forehead, then drop my hands into my lap with a sigh.

"I'm really sorry I upset you. And I'm sorry if I made it sound like I'm more concerned about the baby than you. I love you both, so much."

"Edward …" Bella sighs, finally meeting my gaze. "I'm sorry."

"No–"

"Shush," she says, flicking some bathwater at me. I frown, but remind myself that I need to listen, not tell her what she should be thinking or feeling.

She waits for my nod before continuing. "I know you don't care about my safety only because of the baby. I shouldn't have said that."

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she lifts her hand, watching the droplets of water and tiny bubbles spill from her fingertips. "I was really annoyed with Alice and Mikey. I came home from work early because I had such a bad headache, and they were out in the yard shrieking and carrying on. I just knew something was going to end up flying over the fence." She scrunches up her nose. "At least it just landed on the roof and didn't go through a window.

"But, I–I couldn't be rude to her, and I was … well, you got home and I could tell you were worrying and being ridiculous, and it wasn't like I _wanted_ to be up there. So I might have taken it out on you. And I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not." She flicks some more water at me. Darker spots appear on my scrubs.

I shrug, pulling off my shirt and chucking it toward the hamper. "It happens, Bel. When I'm tired, I get snappy, even though I know it's not fair to you. If you're tired and headachey and grumpy – I get it. So don't worry about it. You've apologized, and so have I, and we've forgiven each other, yeah?"

She nods. She doesn't smile, but the lines on her forehead smooth away. "Yeah."

She skims her hand across the water, sighing. "I'm working on it," she says.

I'm about to ask her what she's working on when she continues, her voice shaky and quiet like the drops of water falling from her fingers.

"I know you don't blame me … but sometimes I still blame myself."

My eyes close as my heart splinters. "Bella." Her name is just a breath.

She shakes her head, eyes closing. "I know."

The words build up in my throat, _"it's not your fault," "it just happens," "there's no one to blame," _but I keep them inside. She knows.

So all I say is, "I love you."

I'm just wondering if this is one of those times when all she needs is a hug, when a much larger spray of water lands on my chest.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Trying to get me wet?"

She giggles, and that sound, more than any of the words we've exchanged, eases the tightness in my chest. "Get in here."

Like I'd say no.

* * *

Bella's knee bounces as we sit in the neutral-colored waiting room on neutral-colored chairs. So does mine. She tries to read for a while, but I can tell by the time it takes her to swipe the page over that she's not really taking anything in. Thankfully, our wait isn't protracted.

"Isabella Swan."

Bella hands me her Kindle and bag, and I trail behind her and the short, round woman who called her name. The sonography tech. probably tells us her name, but I've forgotten it as soon as we walk into the dimly lit room.

"Okay, Isabella," she says. "Lie down here, and get comfy, then lift up your top and unbutton your jeans for me."

Bella complies, reaching for my hand once she's settled on the paper-covered bed. I link our fingers together and offer her a small smile.

The tech. asks her a few questions about how far along she is—twelve weeks—as she spreads her goop across Bella's still flat belly, smiling as Bella flinches. "Sorry," she says. "I know it feels weird."

She slides the transducer through the gel. "Let's see your little one."

Keeping her eyes on the screen, she occasionally freezes the frame on screen and taps at her keyboard, taking measurements here and there. I almost don't want to watch, but I can't tear my eyes away from the grainy black and white swirls on the monitor.

After a little while, and a lot of pushing and sliding of the wand across Bella's belly, the tech. sighs. She must feel Bella's muscles contract because she looks up in surprise. "Baby is being shy," she says.

I can see the tears forming in Bella's eyes, and I squeeze her fingers.

"Is there something wrong?" I say, trying to keep my voice even. I don't know if I succeed.

The tech. shakes her head and my eyes fall to her badge. _Carmen._

"No, no. Not at all." Her eyes widen as she looks between the two of us. "Watch." She holds the transducer still for a moment, and my breath catches in my throat as I watch the jerky movements of those tiny, grainy limbs.

"Listen." She taps a few more keys and flips a switch, and the room is filled with the most beautiful whomp-whomping noise. It's a sound that makes my own pulse stutter in its rhythm, and though we've been here before, and heard this sound before, the roots of hope start to reach deeper into my heart. Bella claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes shining.

"That's your baby's heartbeat," Carmen says. "158. Nice and fast. Perfect."

Bella lets out a muffled sob, and Carmen looks guilty. "I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to scare you," she says, looking from Bella to me. "Everything looks great, I just can't get a particularly clear image for the Nuchal Translucency screen. I think I'm going to need you to drink some more water, Isabella. If that's okay?" She wipes away the goop, and tells Bella to sit up.

Maybe because she feels bad for the anxiety she's inadvertently caused us, Carmen doesn't send us back into the waiting room. She hands Bella a bottle of water and tells her to drink as much as she can of it.

"That's a pretty ring," Carmen says, indicating Bella's engagement ring. "When's the big day?"

Bella winks at me, and I grin, relieved she's no longer freaking out. "We were thinking about the Spring after next," she says. "But we're not in a rush."

"Lovely," the tech says. "How did he propose? Was it romantic?" She looks at me, her eyes narrowed. "He got all teary listening to your baby's heartbeat. I bet he's the romantic type."

I chuckle, grateful for the way she's distracting us from waiting for Bella's bladder to fill.

Bella snickers. "He has his moments." She shifts on the bed, paper crackling as she moves. "Um, let's see. So, it was … when did we get engaged, honey? Three years ago?"

I nod. "Yeah. A few months after you finished grad school."

"Right." Bella smiles, pushing her hair out of her face.

I can feel my cheeks heating up, knowing this story makes me look more goofball than romantic. Despite that, I do love hearing Bella tell it. She gets this secret little smile on her face, and I like that I'm the one who put it there.

"Okay. Well, our first date was a blind date. I used to babysit for his oldest sister, and she thought we'd get along. So, we went to a Thai restaurant down by the beach, and he was twenty minutes late, and I was so mad. But then when he showed up we hit it off almost right away, and we ended up getting kicked out of the restaurant because they wanted to close and we were still too busy talking. So we decided to walk down to the beach and we sat on the pier chatting until like, three o'clock in the morning."

It was only about one-thirty, but I keep quiet.

"So Edward decides he's going to propose, and sets out to recreate our first date. The problem is, the Thai restaurant has since closed down. So he figures the sushi place that's there now will do."

I chuckle. "Most people have no philosophical problems with eating sushi at dinnertime, Bel."

She shushes me with a wave of her hand. "Sushi is lunch food. It's not dinner."

Carmen opens her mouth, but I shake my head. She'll never hear this story if she gets Bella going on a food-related rant.

"So anyway," Bella says, rolling her eyes at me. "I'm in a pretty crappy mood after stuffing my face with uncooked fish and eel and who knows what else and still feeling hungry. And he's all, 'let's go for a walk.' And I'm thinking, 'I don't want to walk, I want a damn burger.' But he's being all weird, and I'd already complained a lot, so I agree to go with him."

Bella smiles, toying with the cuff of her shirt. "So we walk down onto the pier, and he's still being weird and quiet, and I pretty much figure out what he's planning."

"You did not."

She sighs, looking at the tech. "I totally did. Anyway, he starts reminding me about our first date and saying some really sweet, romantic things."

Bella never repeats my actual words when she tells this story. I asked her why once, thinking maybe she'd forgotten what I said, but she told me that I gave her those words, and they weren't for anyone else, so she doesn't want to share them.

"And then he starts fumbling around in his pocket, pulls out a box, opens it … and his fingers are shaking so much that he drops the ring."

I scrub my hands over my face as my cheeks burn hotter.

"We're sitting out on the pier, right? And there's a breeze, and the water is quite choppy, and we hear the ring bounce once, and then nothing. And we're looking at each other, kinda panicking that this ring he's probably spent way too much money on is now at the bottom of the ocean.

"So Edward starts unbuttoning his shirt, and I'm like, 'Oh, hell no.' He's never going to find it, and this is the worst night ever. He's trying to be so romantic and nothing's going right for him."

"So he bought you another ring?"

"Well," I say, "I went to stand up to take my jeans off–"

"And we hear this 'ping–'"

"And I look down, and the damn thing is sitting there on the deck, next to my foot."

"So then he does the down on one knee thing, and he tells me that after all that stress, I can't possibly turn him down."

I didn't say anything of the sort, but I smile and let Bella keep her secrets.

"And I figured he was probably right - he _had_ had a stressful evening, plus I like him okay, and so …" She shrugs, wriggling her fingers so the diamond catches the low light in the room.

Carmen smiles. "Such a beautiful story."

We both look at her, somewhat incredulous.

"It is," she says. "It had to've been fate, that you didn't end up with a diamond solitaire being swallowed by a fish. You guys are just meant to be together."

Bella smiles at me, but it's not an indulgent smile. She's not humoring Carmen; she's agreeing with her.

She starts shifting on the bed, crossing her legs. "Pretty sure my bladder's full," she says.

"Okay, great," Carmen says. "Lie back down, and let's have a look at baby."

My foot jiggles as she sets the transducer to Bella's stomach and starts moving it around again.

"There we go," she says after a while. She points out arms and feet for us, and I can hear the smile in her voice as Bella and I stare at the screen, blinking away our tears. "Now, if baby will cooperate, I'm just going to take a few more measurements …"

Bella groans as she changes the angle of the wand on her belly. "Okay, I really need to pee."

"Just a few more seconds." Carmen's fingers clatter over the keys a few more times. "All right. Done." She rips a piece of paper out of a printer and hands it to me. "There's baby."

As soon as her belly is wiped clean of the gel, I expect Bella to run for the bathroom. She doesn't. Her hand finds mine as we stare at the picture of our child.

Our baby is a little over two inches long—that's what … smaller than a lemon, maybe the size of a lime? But the picture shows her little arms and legs, her fingers and toes.

"Amazing," she says, the word carried on a breath. I can feel her hand trembling in mine. "That's our baby." Her eyes are sparkling with tears as we walk out of the room.

We're heading toward the bathrooms, but she stops in her tracks, looking up at me. I can see it in her eyes: joy fighting with fear. Hope and panic colliding.

"I know," I tell her. And I do. We've been here before. Stood here and stared in wonder at the picture of our child, hope and love ballooning inside us.

I fold my arms around her, and I know the tears that streak our faces spring from both grief and happiness. And perhaps that's how it will always be for us. Joy tempered by loss. Excitement restrained by fear.

"It's okay," I tell her. What I mean is, it's okay to be scared. It's okay to still be sad. And it's okay to be happy and excited, too.

She squeezes me tighter for a moment, before she steps back. "I really need to pee."

"'Kay."

I shake my head as I stand outside the ladies' room, the picture of our baby in my hand, waiting for Bella.

"Amazing," I echo Bella.

An older woman exiting the bathroom gives me an amused smile as she steps around me.

When Bella finally reappears, her eyes are still red-rimmed, her mascara a little smudged, but she's no longer crying.

She tugs at the waistband of her jeans and wriggles her hips. "I think I'm getting fat," she says. Her voice is still a little cracked.

"Uh –" I'm thrown by the change in subject. "You look gorgeous."

She rolls her eyes at me, but she can't hide her smile. She snatches the picture from my hands.

"He's perfect," she says, and the emotion is thick in her voice once again. "Just perfect."

"He?"

"Yep. It's a boy. I just know it."

I blink. I'm pretty sure that's not a statement I'm allowed to contradict. Wrapping my arm around Bella's waist, I tug her toward the doors and try to make her smile again. "So, you wanna go for sushi?"

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so very much for your kind and thoughtful reviews. I'm humbled and overwhelmed, and I am so grateful for every single one of them. **

**BelieveItOrNot - thank you. Your generosity with your time, advice, honesty, and kindness mean more than I can say.**

**My love to you all,**

**Shell x**

* * *

P.S. A rec ... (it's in my favourites - ffn hates links).

**Number One Zero  
**Author: BelieveItOrIReen  
_Divided and reunited. Add time. Subtract color. Carry the remainder, carry a torch. Factors, figures... Edward loves equations, Bella loves expression. They think they know themselves; they think they know each other. But there is always more to learn. "We are what we imagine ourselves to be."_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.**

* * *

Steam puffs from beneath the iron as I run it over the collar of my shirt. I breathe in that mix of hot metal and laundry detergent and broach the subject I've been delaying. "We should really tell our families soon."

Bella sighs. She slides open a drawer and tucks away a neatly folded pile of sweatpants and t-shirts. "Yeah, I guess so."

I frown, concentrating on maneuvering the iron around the buttons. "I mean, I know. It's potentially going to be stressful and just really irritating. But if you start showing before we tell them …"

I shift the shirt on the ironing board, pulling the shoulder taught across the pointy end the way Mom taught me.

"Yeah," Bella says. "They'd never forgive me."

"Us."

She snickers. "If you say so." She hipchecks me out of the way. "Will you please just let me do this?"

"No, Bel–" I fold my arms across my chest as I watch her run the iron across the back of my shirt. "I can do it."

"I know you _can_," she says. "But I'm a hell of a lot faster, and I'm hungry. Just let me do it so we can go out and get some lunch, like, this week, okay?"

I blow out an irritated breath. "I don't – it's not … I–"

Bella sets the iron down in the little holder thing at the end of the board and reaches for a coat hanger. "How long are you going to let him control you?"

I drop the newly-hung shirt she passes me. _What?_ My head spinning, I pick up the shirt and walk to the closet. I hang it on the rack, and then turn back to see Bella pressing the crease into a pair of slacks.

"What do you–" My voice comes out too quiet, cracking a little. I clear my throat and try again. "What do you mean?"

Bella is silent as she finishes ironing. Picking up another hanger, she folds my pants over them. She hands them to me, then leans over and unplugs the iron. Wrapping the cord up, she looks at me with soft eyes. "You're not your dad, Edward."

"I know." God knows I've spent my whole life trying not to be like him.

Bella collapses the ironing board and waves her hand between me and the board. "Can you put this away? I'll take them."

I hand the freshly-pressed pants to her and grab the ironing board. When I return from stowing it in the linen closet in the hallway, Bella is sitting cross-legged on the end of our bed. She pats the spot beside her. I take it, sitting down heavily, my hands limp between my knees. Bella's hand is warm on my lower back.

"What would your father have said if your mom asked him to put away the ironing board?"

I scrub a hand over my eyes, trying to push away the images of my dad criticizing my mom. "He'd have probably bitched her out about ironing while he was home." I shrug. "I don't know. She was s'posed to do that kind of stuff while he was at work."

She nods. "Edward … I get that you work really hard to not be like that misogynistic asshole, okay?" She sighs, moving her hand to my thigh. "But I think … sometimes you're trying so hard to be different from him and well, in doing so, you're still giving him a lot of control over you."

I frown at the floor, rubbing my bare feet against the carpet. "I–" I shake my head, trying to consider what she's saying.

"Like … some people spend their whole lives seeking their parents' approval. But with you … you've spent so much time trying not to be your dad. You – you don't need to. You don't have to do every damn thing around the house to prove to me you're not a sexist pig, all right? It's gotta be give and take."

"I don't do every–"

Bella snaps a hand over my lips, squashing my words. "You do a lot. And I appreciate it. Seriously. But letting me iron your stupid clothes isn't the end of the world. Just …" She shakes her head. "I just want you to think about _why_ you do stuff, all right? Especially with baby coming. Your old man probably never changed a diaper in his life. But that doesn't mean you need to change every single one …"

She blows some hair out of her eyes and pulls her hand away from my mouth. "Am I making sense?"

_Is she?_ I have no idea. "I–"

I look away from her, my gaze drifting across the wall to the photos she hung there after we re-painted our bedroom last year. There's no pattern or symmetry in their hanging, and the frames are all mismatched. I was dubious as I watched Bella hammer each hook into the wall with a stiletto heel, but it turned out she's got quite an eye for composition.

To the right of the cluster, there's a photograph of my dad and me. It's not a great photo—in fact, I hate it and usually avoid looking at it—but Bella wanted the whole family represented.

"We have to have all the people we love here," she told me, tapping her fingernail against the wall. "All the people who've shaped us, you know?"

In the photograph, taken at our engagement party, we're facing each other, not the camera. My father stands the same way I see him in my mind, stiff and straight, proud, arrogant. He's not smiling. But that's not why I hate it. I hate the look on my own face. I hate the almost hopeful expression I wear, like I'm waiting for that moment he'll crack a smile. At almost thirty years of age, I still look like little the little kid in my mom's albums who just wants to hear his father say, "Good job, son."

I pretty much blew any chance of that happening the day I told him I was going into nursing, rather than medicine.

"You have the marks, don't you?" he'd asked. "And obviously the money isn't an issue." He shook his head. "Oh, I see. Some kind of–" he lifted his hands to form air quotes " –_rebellion_ thing, is it?"

"Not at all," I said, trying to keep my voice level.

"So why _nursing_?" He said it like a curse word. "Not man enough for the stress, the hours, the rigor of study? The commitment?"

I pressed my lips together, making sure I had the words lined up in my mind before I filed them out into the tense air between us. "Nurses do a really important job. Remember when Nanna broke her hip? I was really impressed with the dedication of the nurses who looked after her. Nothing was too much trouble. I guess that's when I first started considering it as a career. I mean, I suppose I could be happy practicing as a GP or something … But I truly think I'll be a much better nurse than I would a doctor."

He snorted. "You always were a little … well, perhaps you wouldn't cope with the stress. Holding someone else's life in your hands. You're right, probably too much responsibility for you. Your mother and sisters have babied you too much."

I didn't take the bait. "Maybe."

"So, that's it. You're just going to–"

Impatient to be done with the conversation, I cut him off. "Yep. That's it. I'm just going to be a nurse."

Growing up with three older sisters, as well as my mom, I could never really understand how Dad could think he was so much stronger, more rational, and more intelligent than them. I mean, seriously? Just because he drove a flashy car to work and sat at his desk all day snapping orders at people and looking out over water views? Just because he had a penis?

I'd listen to him bicker with Mom, and it was pretty clear to me who was the more logical person in the relationship. So when I moved out of home and headed to college, and she showed him the door, the only thought in my mind was, "finally."

Bella's fingers on my knee pull me back to her. "You're a good man," she says, her voice quiet. "You prove it, not just by the things you do, but also by the the things you say, and think. By your attitudes."

Maybe she's right. Maybe I am trying too hard to be not-him, at the expense of just being who I want to be.

She takes my hand and lines our fingers up, palm to palm. "I'm just saying … let's do this on equal footing, okay?"

I smile at our joined hands. "Bel, I'm not sure I'll ever be your equal."

She shoves me with her shoulder. "Stop that. I'm far from perfect—and I'm okay with that."

I chuckle, wrap an arm around her waist and kiss her cheek. She lets me hold her for a moment, before she pushes me away and jumps to her feet.

"Now, can we go eat? I'm really freaking hungry."

* * *

Mom invites the whole family over for lunch the following weekend, so Bella and I decide we'll tell them all at once—Mom and Carlisle, and my sisters and their families.

"Get all the screaming and crying done in one hit," Bella had muttered as we pulled into the drive.

As expected, Mom tears up immediately, flapping her hands at her face as she stands up and comes around the table to hug Bella.

"I'm going to be a grandma again," she says, her voice all creaky. "Oh, sweetheart." She moves her hand toward Bella's stomach but pulls it away. "Sorry," she says, shaking her head. "I should know better. It used to drive me crazy when people would put their hands on me when I was pregnant."

Katie laughs at that. She's wiping the corner of her eye with a napkin. "Never stopped you before, Mom."

Little Makenna puts her grubby hand on her mom's cheek. "You otay, Momma?"

"Yeah, baby," Katie says, kissing her daughter's forehead. "Momma's just happy. Uncle Edward and Auntie Bella are going to have a baby."

Makenna nods, her little face serious. "I be a big girl cousin?"

"That's right, Kenny," Bella says with a smile. I know she's excited our baby will have so many cousins to play with. Claire—who Bella used to babysit for—has three girls and a boy, just like Mom did—and Katie has Eleazar and Makenna.

At almost-three, Makenna is the baby of the family—until now.

Rosalie grins, her arm around Irina's shoulders. "Aww, my baby brother's gonna be a daddy." She fakes a sniffle.

I make to flip her the bird, but Bella grabs my hand, tilting her head toward Makenna. I shoot Katie a sheepish smile. Claire had Lucy while I was still in high school—you'd think I'd know better by now.

When the sun begins its westward slide, the kids crowded around the TV in the living room, I step outside onto the balcony, needing to escape from the noise for a moment. My family have been wonderful, if a little overwhelming in their excitement. My head is just about clear when I hear the door slide open behind me. Carlisle has two beers in one hand, and my coat in the other.

"Bella," he says by way of explanation, handing me my jacket.

Once I've zipped it up, he hands me a beer.

"Thanks, man."

He grins. "Congratulations," he says, knocking his bottle against mine.

I nod. "Cheers."

When Mom first introduced Carlisle to the family two years ago, I was a little wary of him. He's more than ten years younger than she is, and I was of the opinion he'd have to prove himself worthy of her before I made any effort with him. In other words, I was a stand-offish dick to him.

Eventually Rose pulled me aside and told me to get my head out of my ass. "Can't you see how happy Mom is?" she said. "Give the guy a break. He's good people."

"He's so young." It was a pathetic objection, and we both knew it.

"Look at it this way," Rose said. "We both know she'll never admit it, but Mom stuck with Dad for our sake—until we were all adults. And how many years of happiness did she lose because of that? It's like … I dunno, it's good that Carlisle's younger. Kinda feels like she's claiming back some lost time."

It still took me a while to warm up to him, but when I went looking for reasons to like him—I found more than a few. It's got to be strange for a guy who doesn't have any kids of his own to step into such a crowded and close-knit family as ours. We've never spoken about it, but I often get the feeling he sees it as a privilege, rather than a chore. Half the time it's him, rather than Mom, who invites us around these days. I don't know if he'd consider himself a father-figure, he arrived on the scene when we were all fully-grown, but watching the obvious affection he has for his step-grandkids … well, I think I can learn a lot from him.

"So," he says. "She's well?" He jerks his head toward the living room. Through the glass, I can see Bella perched on the arm of the couch, talking to Katie and Irina. Her hair is tied in a knot on top of her head and it bounces around as she laughs.

"Yeah, mostly. She had pretty bad morning sickness for a while there, but it seems to be getting better."

He nods. "And you guys …" He tugs the sleeves of his sweater down. "You doing okay with what happened … before?" When Bella miscarried, we told Mom and Carlisle, but not my sisters—Bella thought their "support," while well-intentioned, might be too overwhelming for her.

"Most of the time," I say. "We have our moments of panic, but she seems to worry less than I do." _Or she just hides it better._

Carlisle chuckles, clapping my shoulder. "She's strong."

"I know it."

He sighs, and there's a sadness I don't understand in his expression. "I don't … I mean, I don't know if your mom's ever told you much about my, uh … experience."

"Not a lot," I say. I know his marriage ended quite a long time ago, and that he doesn't have any kids.

He nodded. "Lizzy and I … uh." He rubs the back of his neck, looking away from me. "Well, she miscarried three times. After that, we – she – couldn't bear to go through it again, so we decided not to try again. I wanted to adopt or foster, but she … well, she didn't want to, and I – how could I press the issue? She'd suffered so much, and she said raising someone else's kid would remind her of that too much."

"Oh." I don't really know what to say to that.

He blows out a breath, squinting against the setting sun as he looks at me. "I couldn't really understand her way of thinking, but … loss affects people differently." He shrugs. "Maybe that's why we didn't work out. I don't know. Anyway, I just … whatever you're feeling – it's okay." He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer, deeper. "It must be soon, right? The anniversary?"

I nod. It's next week. Leaning my hip against the railing, I look out over the swing-set and jungle gym in Mom's backyard. One of the swings creaks a little as the breeze catches it, and there's a tightness in my chest as the silent echoes of today run through me: my nieces and nephews' shouts and laughter, and the painful reminder that there could've—_should've_—been a chubby baby being passed from cousin to cousin this afternoon.

"I – you might not think it's my business, and that's okay," he says. "But if I may …" He

"It's okay, Carlisle," I say. "I don't mind."

He nods. "Um, I guess, I just wanted to say with that … with the anniversary, if you guys are wrecked by it, it's okay. But it's also okay if you're not."

I pick at the label of my now empty beer bottle. "I don't know what you're saying."

"I'm saying … there's no right way to grieve. If you guys feel absolutely gutted as you approach the anniversary, then it doesn't mean you don't love this baby. And if you're feeling delighted about this baby, it doesn't mean you don't love the child you lost."

My head snaps up. Carlisle's gaze is trained on the horizon, orange light reflected on his face.

"I–I just want you to know what I wish someone had told me. What you feel is what you feel, and that's okay. Grief is personal. No one experiences it the same way. Even you and Bella won't experience it the same way."

I need to sit down. My head feels heavy as I try to organize my thoughts, and yet, at the same time, that tightness in my chest has loosened a fraction.

I slump onto the Adirondack loveseat, my head bowed. It's something like relief, I think. Permission to feel whatever I'm feeling is freeing—even if half the time I don't even know what the fuck it is that I feel. Because it's all there inside me, sorrow, hope, love, excitement and guilt, the threads as knotted and snarled as Bella's first and only attempt at knitting.

Carlisle sits beside me and places his hand on my shoulder. He says nothing more, he just stays with me as the last of the day disappears, and the first few stars appear in the sky.

Eventually, the glass door behind us squeaks on its railings, and Bella pokes her head outside. "Babe, Katie and Garrett, and Claire and Riley are heading home, but Rose and Irina are staying for dinner. Esme wants to know if we want to stay, too."

"Up to you," I tell her.

She raises her eyebrows, silently checking I'm okay. I nod and she smiles.

"Well," she says, "even though we're going to Mom and Dad's tomorrow night for dinner, I wouldn't complain about not having to cook."

I chuckle. "I'm happy to stay."

"Okay." She looks between Carlisle and myself. "It's getting cold out here. Come in soon, okay?"

I stand up, stretching, trying to roll away the stiffness in my shoulders. "I'll be in in a sec."

When Bella disappears back inside, Carlisle stands. "Should head in and see if Esme needs a hand," he says. "But Edward, if you need someone to talk to at all, you know where to find me.

I wait until he looks me in the eye. "Thank you."

* * *

When I was in my junior year, we studied _King Lear_ in English. I hated it, for the most part. I mean, why the hell is it so amazing that the guy wrote in those ten-syllable lines? But one of the things I do remember is Claire's explaining the way Shakespeare used the weather and environment to show that what was going on in the story—play, whatever—wasn't right. Weirdly, this is what I'm thinking about as we drive home from Bella's parents' place the next evening.

When we left my parents' place last night, the night sky was the deepest blue-black, the moon shining silver and serene.

Tonight, dark grey clouds obscure the moon and stars, and every so often the car is buffeted by a gust of wind. It's not raining yet, but I can smell it coming.

Bella has been quiet since we left. With her feet up on the dashboard, her face is turned away from me.

Sighing, I reach for the stereo, turning down the symphony she put on when we left home earlier this evening. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Bel."

She finally turns to look at me. The blue lights on the dash reflect on her wet cheeks. My heart sinks like a stone. I flick the blinker on, looking for a safe place to pull over.

"Don't." Bella says. "Please. I just want to get home."

Shaking my head, I switch the blinker off. "Talk to me, then. Please. Tell me what you're thinking."

She sniffles. From the corner of my eye, I see her wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I'm just disappointed, baby."

* * *

Bella twisted her fork through her spaghetti, only to drop it back onto her plate with a sigh. I reached under the table to squeeze her knee, unsure as to whether she was nervous or nauseated.

She wrinkled her nose and reached for a slice of garlic bread. Taking a small bite, she chewed slowly, then tossed it back onto her plate. Setting her napkin on the table, she got to her feet.

"Isabella?" Renée frowned as she watched Bella tuck her chair in. "What are you–"

"I'm pregnant," she said. "Excuse me." She turned and disappeared down the hallway. The sound of her vomiting reached us moments later.

"I – uh –" I stood up, looking between Renée and Charlie. They both stared at me, pasta trailing from the forks held halfway to their mouths. "I'll just go check …"

I shuffled down the hallway, half-relieved for the excuse to leave the table.

"I'm sorry," Bella mumbled, flushing the toilet. She turned and rifled through the drawers until she found an unused toothbrush.

I shrugged off her apology. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she said through a mouthful of foam. She spat toothpaste into the sink. "The garlic was too strong. Sorry to announce that and then abandon you. I wasn't really thinking."

"It's okay," I said. "Well, it _was_ kinda awkward."

"I'll bet." Rinsing her mouth out, she set the toothbrush on the vanity. "Okay. Shall we try that again?"

As we walked back to the dining room, my glance caught on a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the hallway, forgotten, and three weeks out of date. Bella grabbed my hand and twined our fingers together.

"Sorry 'bout that," she said, forcing a wide smile. "Apparently morning sickness is a misnomer. So, yeah. I'm pregnant, baby is due July 10."

I'm not sure Charlie had moved since she first opened her mouth.

Renée was beaming. "This is wonderful," she said, looking between the two of us, her hands clasped under her chin. "Just wonderful. Isn't it, Charlie?"

Silence.

Bella's smile slipped a little. "Dad?"

"Huh?" He shook his head and cleared his throat. As he pushed back his chair and got to his feet, my stomach flipped.

I could see his eyes, as dark as Bella's, were wet as he crouched down beside her.

"You're having a baby?"

"Yeah, Dad," she whispered. "You're gonna be a grandpa."

"Wow." His voice was just as quiet as Bella's. He looked over at me, then back at his daughter. "Thank you."

We all pretended not to notice the tears slipping down his cheeks into his beard as he kissed Bella's forehead, then reached over to shake my hand.

"Just wonderful," Renée said again, once Charlie was back in his seat. "So, when's the big day?"

Bella blinked. "July 10," she repeated.

Renée laughed. "No, silly. When are you two getting married?"

Bella looked at me as her mother continued to prattle, her words coming faster and her voice rising in pitch. "Oh, we're going to be so busy getting everything done. That's not a lot of time, but I'm sure we can manage it. We'll need to book a reception venue this week though. And you'll need to look at dresses … oh, finding a style that can accommodate your tummy will be tricky, but these–"

"Mom. We're not getting married."

Renée looked at Bella like she'd just told her we were planning on leaving town to join a commune of nudist hippies where we'd spend the rest of our days growing kale and cannabis.

"Well, we are. Spring after next, like we always planned."

"But–"

"No." Bella raised her hand. "No 'buts.' The last thing we need is the stress of planning a wedding right now."

I watched Renée's nostrils flair, praying this wasn't about to descend into an argument. I cleared my throat, searching for a subject change but coming up empty.

"Ren," Charlie said, his hand on her shoulder. He leaned over and spoke quietly to her. She pressed her lips together as she listened. Forcing a tight smile, she nodded once.

"Okay. Well then, congratulations. We're very happy for you."

* * *

"They _are_ excited, baby," I say. "Your Dad …" I shake my head. "I've never seen him like that."

"Yeah, I know." Her voice is a little croaky. She drops her feet from the dash and rests them on the seat, pulling her knees to her chest. "I just … I thought Mom would be happier for us, for me. I feel, I don't know, kinda ripped off."

I'm calling Renée a few not-so-nice names in my mind, but I don't give them voice. They won't comfort Bella.

"I'm sure she is excited, Bel."

"Didn't really seem like it." Bella sniffles. "She jumped from 'congratulations' to 'why aren't you getting married?' pretty quickly."

"Well, maybe she expects us to do things a little more traditionally. But I think she'll come around."

"I guess. It's just … she's my mom, you know? I need her to teach me how to be a mom, too. And I keep seeing that look on her face – when I said we weren't going to move the wedding forward. It feels like she's … well, it hurts."

The sadness in her voice makes my chest ache. "I'm sorry you're feeling hurt."

She nods, looking out the window. Silence stretches between us. I wish there was something more I could say.

"I love you."

"I know. And I love you, too." I can feel Bella's gaze on my face as she speaks. "Do … do you think we need to get married sooner?"

I run a hand through my hair as I consider my answer.

"I don't think we _need_ to do anything. The question should be do we want to get married sooner?" I check the rearview mirror—the road behind us is empty and dark. "Do _you _want to get married sooner?"

Bella opens the glove box and rummages around in there. I don't think she's really looking for the pack of gum she pulls out. She offers me a stick and I take it. "Thanks."

She unwraps her piece but doesn't put it in her mouth. The scent of cinnamon fills the car. "Do you want to get married sooner?"

I glance at her and smile. "I'd marry you tomorrow if that's what you wanted. Or, I can wait out the year like we planned." I chuckle, squeezing her knee. "But don't make me wait longer than that, all right? I'd be forced to take you to Vegas or something."

Bella shakes her head. "Try it."

"I don't know that there's a right way to do any of this stuff, Bel. Look at my sisters. Claire married Riley right out of high school, and they had kids almost right away. Katie and Garrett have two kids and probably won't ever get married. And Rose has known since she was a teenager that she didn't want to have kids. They all seem happy. We just need to do what's right for us. Doesn't matter what anyone else has done, or what they think we should do."

"I guess."

"So the question is, Bel, do you want to get married sooner?"

She pops the piece of gum in her mouth, and chews slowly. She's quiet for a few minutes, but eventually she sighs.

"It's not that I don't want to marry you—you know that, right?"

"I do."

"Ha ha." She looks out the window for a moment. "I just don't want to think about wedding crap right now. I don't think I have room in my brain. Mostly I'm doing okay, but I still … I worry, you know? About something going wrong with this pregnancy."

I cover her hand where it rests on my knee. _Me, too._

"I know we could just go down to the courthouse, or take a weekend in Vegas, and do it with minimal stress, but that's not really what I want. I want simple, but I want a wedding. In a church, in a pretty white dress, with all our friends and family there. And I want it to be in spring, and I don't know, maybe instead of carrying a bouquet of flowers, I'll carry this little guy." She pats her stomach.

I lift her hand and press a kiss to her palm. "Then that's what we'll do."

I'm pulling into our drive when Bella shakes her head.

"What?"

"Oh, I'm just thinking," she says. "I don't imagine Mom will drop the subject quite so easily."

_Don't I know it._ Problem is, she'll wait until she can catch Bella alone and try to bully her into agreement.

I wait for Bella to climb out of the car. "Do you want me to reassure you, or distract you?"

Her arms slide around my waist. "Can you do both? But can you be done with the reassuring part by the time the front door is unlocked?"

My words get kind of muffled as she kisses me, and we stumble almost-sideways up the path. I know I tell her I've got her back, but after that I get distracted—she moves in front of me, looking over her shoulder, her eyes glinting in the porch light as I fumble with my keys.

"I do love it when you've got my back," she murmurs.

I groan and swear at the idiocy of having two different locks on one front door.

Bella laughs, turning and tugging at my sweater. She kisses along my collarbone as I shove key after key at the lock, too impatient to stop and look at them closely.

Finally, finally, the fucking door swings open, and we stumble into the hallway. With Bella's fingers already at the buttons of my jeans, I manage to keep my head long enough to kick the door shut again and switch off the porch lights.

Leaving a trail of shoes and jeans and underwear in the hallway, we barely make it to the bedroom. My shirt is undone but still hanging from my shoulders, and Bella's lost her sweater but not her tank-top when I grab her hips and move behind her. It's frantic and fast, the sound of our bodies colliding punctuated by groans and gasps.

When we collapse, sweaty and sated, onto the bed, Bella rolls toward me with a lazy smile, her blinks growing slower. "Mmm hmm," she says, her words mushy in her mouth. "Love it … got my back."

* * *

**A/N: Ladies (and gents, if there are any of you out there) - I am completely overwhelmed by your kind words, your encouragment, and the stories you've shared with me. The care you all have for these two (or three!) means so much to me. Thank you so much for reading, and for sharing your thoughts with me. *blows kisses to you all***

**BelieveItOrNot - Thank you. Always. Forever.**

**Love, Shell x**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.**

* * *

"Are you on your way home?"

"Yeah, I just pulled on to Johnson St." My neck is stiff, my lower back aches from spending the last ten hours on my feet. All I want is to take a hot shower and then fall onto the couch with my fiancée to watch some mindless television.

"Oh."

Static crackles over the speakers. I tug a hand through my hair. "Bella?"

"Yeah."

"What's up?"

"It doesn't matter; you're almost home."

I glance in the rearview mirror. The horizon is streaked with orange and grey as the day sinks into night. The trees lining the streets are silhouettes, stripped of color.

"What do you need, Bel?"

"It doesn't–"

"Just tell me. It's no big deal." I cross my hands over each other as I turn the steering wheel. "I just went around the roundabout. So you better tell me, quick."

Her sigh rattles across the radiowaves. "I'm dying for a cheeseburger."

"No problem. I'll go through the drive-thru and be home soon."

"Okay … Can I have it with barbeque sauce and bacon? And large fries."

I chuckle. "Sure."

* * *

The shrill ringing of my phone bounces off the concrete walls in the hospital parking garage. I nearly drop my keys. "You should be asleep," I say by way of greeting. It's after two o'clock in the morning.

Lights flicker as thunder rumbles in the distance. The rain started some time last night and hasn't let up.

"I know. Are you leaving soon?"

"Just getting in the car now," I say, sliding into the driver's seat. I pull the door shut and fumble with my key, finally slotting it into the ignition. I don't start the car yet. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine."

She's fine, but she's awake and calling me at two a.m.?

"Are you sure?" My stomach twists. The anniversary is three days away. The calendar squares seem, this week, like some kind of horrific boardgame … I find myself wishing we could roll a dice, land on a ladder, and bypass January 19.

"I just …" She sighs, her breath scratching over the microphone of her cell phone.

"Talk to me, Bella."

"It doesn't matter," she says. "I … it's just another silly craving."

My laugh is more relief than amusement. "Another cheeseburger?" I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I'm tired and craving my bed, the warmth of Bella beside me, but there's a McDonalds, an In-N-Out, and a Burger King between the hospital and home, so it's really not a problem to detour through a drive-thru. I won't even have to get wet.

"No. Um, I really want some waffles … But fresh ones, not the frozen ones."

I won't be getting those from a drive-thru.

Lifting my head, I press my fingertips into the space between my eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." Bella's voice is small. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." The words are carried on a sigh. I push away my irritation. It's not like she chooses to wake up in the middle of the night with her body demanding some random food item. "I'll be home in about half an hour."

_At least I can sleep in_, I tell myself. I've taken the next four days off. For Bella's sake. For my own.

"Okay … and Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

* * *

"Edward?"

"Mmm." I don't look up from the newspaper folded across my lap. The crossword is half done, but I'm stuck for the moment. I skip over a few clues, looking for one I can answer. Bella is beside me on the couch, her back against the armrest and her toes tucked under my thigh.

"Are you hungry?"

_48 Down: Weather map lines._ "Um, not really." We only ate breakfast about an hour ago. I look up at her. "Hey, what are those lines on a weather map called? The ones that show pressure systems moving through."

Bella thinks about that for a moment, her gaze aimed somewhere over my head. "Isobars?"

I-S-O-B … I nod. "Yep. That's it."

"So you're not even slightly hungry?"

I pat my stomach. "Nope." I still feel uncomfortably full, actually.

"Oh."

Silence settles over the room for a while, broken only by the crackle of newspaper under my fingers, and the soft pattering of rain against the windows.

"I think the baby really wants a milkshake."

Her words land in my lap and it takes me a while to decipher them. A snort chases my understanding.

"Baby wants a milkshake?" I raise my eyebrows as I look at her.

She nods, trying to fight a smile. She loses.

"Uh, I can make you one. We've got ice cream and milk and vanilla essence."

"Oh, okay." She can't quite hide her disappointment.

I take a deep breath, trying to find the edges of my patience and hold it in place. "What kind of milkshake would baby prefer?"

Her voice is tiny, only a few inches tall. "Cherry, chocolate and coconut."

_Where the hell am I going to get one of those?_

Bella answers the question I don't voice. "From the café on the corner of Larks and Brown. It's called a Cherry Ripe."

I watch the water streak down the glass, the droplets racing each other to the ground. "It's raining."

"I know. I'm sorry." She pulls her feet out from beneath my leg, swinging them to the floor.

"Bella–" I push my fingertips into my forehead. She wants me to drive into town, in the rain, for a milkshake. She didn't even finish the waffles I made her the night before last at three o'clock in the fucking morning. "Can it wait?"

"No, it can't." I'm caught off-guard by the edge to her tone and the tight lines around her mouth. "It's not a big deal. It'll take you ten minutes.

"I'm asking you to get me a milkshake," she says. "One milkshake … is it that much to ask of you when I'm carrying your child for nine months?"

Hurt and anger tornado through me , scattering my thoughts. I don't trust myself to speak so I clamp my jaw shut and close the newspaper. I toss it onto the coffee table with too much force; it slides across the surface and lands on the floor with a dull thump. Neither of us speak as I pull on a hoodie, grab my keys, and stuff my feet into shoes. I resist the urge to slam the front door.

As I pull out of the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Bella standing in the front doorway, her arms wrapped around her middle.

I give myself the time it takes to reach the corner of Larks and Brown to feel my anger and hurt. I let myself rage silently against Bella's selfishness and cruelty. I let myself imagine the hurtful things I wanted to say.

I speak them into the silence, those bitter words.

"It's not fair to expect me to drop everything every time you get a craving."

"This is the seventh time in three days."

"Why can't you go get it yourself?"

"There are the keys. You go get it."

"My child? Why is it only my child when it's going to inconvenience you?"

For just five minutes, I give myself over to vitriol and self-righteousness. When I stop the car—I get a parking spot right outside the café—I feel worse than I did when I left home.

I jump out of the car and barely get dripped on as I jog dart under the awning. Inside the café it's warm, the smell of ground coffee and sweet cinnamon is comforting. It's half past eleven, so the breakfast and brunch crowds have thinned, and it's still too early for lunch. A young girl with magenta streaks in her platinum hair, and intricately drawn tattoo sleeves, takes my order, her smile bright.

"Won't be long," she tells me, handing me my change.

I pretend to flip through the same newspaper I was reading at home while she makes Bella's milkshake and my coffee. The print blurs, despite the frames perched on my nose. I blink hard, trying to get myself under control.

_Fuck_.

The tension that sprung up between us, out of nowhere, over something so stupid … I don't understand it, and I hate it. Is it just the stress of having to deal with it being almost a year since we lost our baby? The overwhelming emotions flaring up, seeping out of us in misdirected outbursts? Is it just a combination of tiredness and hormones? Is there some deeper-lying problem in our relationship?

When the girl with pink hair sets two paper cups in front of me, she gives me a smile and a cheerful, "Enjoy!"

I think I remember to thank her. Gripping the small, hot cup of coffee, I walk slowly back to the car, not caring about the rain dripping into my hair and beading on my glasses. Condensation slides down the sides of the much larger cup in my other hand.

When I pull into the drive, Bella is where I last saw her. Kind of. She's sitting in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her knees, the sleeves of her red cardigan pulled over her hands. She looks small, vulnerable, and the residue of my anger blows away in the cold wind that whips around me as I step out of the car.

I can tell she's crying before I see the wetness on her cheeks. I can see it in the hunch of her shoulders, and the downward curve of her top lip.

"Hey," I say. All the harsh words I imagined myself saying have deserted me.

I pass her the milkshake. "I tasted it," I tell her. "It's pretty delicious. I can see why baby would want one."

She forces a smile. "Thank you." Her voice is hoarse—she must've spent the entire time I was gone crying. The thought tears at me.

Sitting down beside her on the stoop, I take a sip of my coffee. "I'm sorry." I watch the heavier streams of rain pouring from the eaves and pooling on the porch in front of us, fine droplets ricocheting from the puddles and landing on my shoes and Bella's fuzzy pink socks.

"I know you don't choose to have those cravings, Bel. And I'll try harder to be understanding of that."

I take my glasses off and wipe the tiny drops from the lenses with the sleeve of my sweater. "But, please don't … it really hurt me when you said 'your child.'"

Setting them back on my nose, I sigh. "We're in this together. I'm sorry for getting impatient with you, but – just, please let's not do that. Not my child, or your child. Always _our_ child."

Bella sniffles. I wrap my arm around her shoulder, feeling a rush of nerves. Will she accept my affection?

She does, sinking against my side like she can barely keep herself upright. I tighten my arm around her as I feel her shoulders start to shake. "I–I'm so s-sorry."

I kiss her hair. She's crying hard now.

"It's raining," she says, her words pushed out between sobs and gasped breaths. "And I made you go get a stupid milkshake. And the roads are wet and slippery. What if … what if …"

"Don't," I say, burying my face in her hair. "Don't go there. I'm here. I'm fine." I squeeze her tighter, as if to show her just how present I am.

"I'm here," I say again. I swallow down the lump in my throat as her tears soak through the fabric of my hoodie, swiping a finger under my eye. It comes away wet. "It's okay, Bel. It's okay."

When she falls quiet, sniffling occasionally, I kiss her temple. Nudging her shoulder, I smile. "Hey, you haven't tasted the milkshake yet."

"Oh." She picks up the cup and sips, as I push an escaped curl back behind her ear. She drinks in silence for a while, wrinkling her nose at me like she always does when I'm staring at her. Even snotty and puffy-eyed, she's beautiful. She wouldn't believe me if I told her though.

"Good?"

She nods, giving me a small smile around the straw. She sets the cup on the stoop beside her.

"I'm sorry," she says. Speaking sounds painful, the words scratching their way out. "You're not selfish, and I know these cravings are a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, but's it's not like you ask for them, you know? I get that."

"I know you do," she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. "But just because they're there … I mean, I should be better at, I don't know, ignoring them or something. A vanilla milkshake should have been fine."

"Well, to be fair, Bel, that thing _is_ pretty damn tasty."

She pulls back, giving me a weak and watery smile. "It is … but you're not my servant or whatever." She fingers the straw, turning her attention to the rain-water cascading over the edge of the roof.

"I'm really sorry. For saying 'your' baby. For implying that this isn't something we're in together, completely." She shakes her head, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "God, what an awful, ungrateful thing to say … when w-we – tomorrow …"

I wait for her to compose her thoughts.

"How dare I, you know? After all that grief, the grief that's still here." She pushes two fingers against her breastbone. "I'm so ashamed of myself," she says. "That after all that sadness, and all that longing for a baby … that when we've been blessed with one … so soon, my mouth runs off with my temper and I say something so unbelievably selfish and spiteful."

I don't know what to say. _It's okay?_ Because it's not. _You hurt me?_ She knows that.

"I get it, sweetheart."

"You do?"

"Like I've never said something I didn't really mean in the heat of the moment?" I sigh. "It doesn't make it right … but everyone does it. So yeah, I get it."

I kiss her cheek, tasting the salt of her drying tears. "We should get out of the rain." I stand up and offer her my hand. Her fingers close around mine, and even though I know we'll be facing another emotional storm tomorrow, there's comfort in her touch, in our clasped hands, in walking this path together .

* * *

Wakefulness has me by the toes. Tugging, pinching, dragging me unwillingly from the safe oblivion of sleep.

I fight it. Hard. Uselessly.

Sunshine mocks the heavy, dark feeling that's gathered low in my chest. It flickers across the ceiling, the light cool and clear after the rain.

How can the sun dare shine today? Shakespeare wouldn't have written today as sunny and fresh. Today, the skies should weep as they have for the last few days. Today, grey clouds should smother us, cocooning us in our grief.

I pull the comforter up to my chin and a pillow over my head, my eyes squeezing closed. Like I can will the brightening morning back below the horizon and cling to the gloom behind my eyelids.

Hovering on the edge of sleep, I'm unable to give myself the necessary push to fall back into its arms. The more I try to reach that edge, to fall, the further away it seems.

My desperation is building, and I'm thinking I should've taken some zolpidem last night, when the mattress bounces with Bella's movement. Is she awake?

I won't sleep through her waking. I don't want her to face today alone, not even for a few minutes.

Pulling the pillow off my head, I roll toward her, searching her face.

She's still asleep. I reach for her and she sighs as I wrap myself around her, my head in the crook of her neck, my leg across both of hers.

I lie there, my eyes closed, waiting, and I'm nearly asleep again when she yawns. "Edward?"

My heart speeding, I pull back a little.

Maybe it's because we exhausted so much emotion yesterday, that when she finally opens her eyes, there's a stillness there.

There are tears already pooling in the corners, but no raging storm, no turbulence. I wonder if she sees the same in me. We've come to terms with the fact that there's no one to blame, no reasons, no answers to our questions. There is just sorrow, just a child-sized emptiness in our hearts.

Tears slip down Bella's cheeks, darkening the lilac-coloured cotton of her pillowcase.

"I don't know what to do," I tell her, my voice cracking. My eyes sting.

"Just hold me," she whispers.

"Come here." I lift an arm, and she wriggles closer, resting her head on my chest. Our ankles tangled together, I place my hand on her waist.

For a long time, the only sounds in the room are our occasional sniffles and the soft tapping of the blinds against the window as a breeze eases its way in. It brings with it the rain-clean freshness and the scent of the lavender planted outside.

"How can I miss someone I never got to meet?"

I trace circles across her back, trying to order my thoughts. "Because you loved that little someone, Bella. And when you love someone, and they're gone, it hurts. It aches. I think it always will."

She nods against my shoulder.

"You loved that baby unconditionally—we both did. No, we both _do_. Even without having seen or held him. Just the same as we love this baby."

I cover her belly with my hand, feeling a strange prickle of hopefulness.

Carlisle's words echo in my mind, and I feel a rush of affection for my step-father. As overwhelmed as I am by the flux of emotion—grief to joy, hope to sadness—the one that's absent from me this morning is guilt. And it's a relief.

Bella covers my hand with her own, a soft sigh escaping her. Her breath is warm and humid on my skin.

"It's–" She clears her throat "–hard not to … I get scared."

She doesn't say what she's afraid of. Perhaps she can't bear to actually speak the thought aloud, not today. I understand what she means, though.

"Me, too." It's always there, that worry, that whispered "what if?" that lurks in the background, making our joy bittersweet.

We stay in bed for a long time, talking quietly and dozing until hunger forces us out of bed.

After lunch, we watch some movie—I'm not sure either of us pays any real attention to it. It's just noise and color on the screen, a diversion from the silence we don't know how to break. As the credits roll, Bella throws my hoodie at me. "Let's go out."

"Where to?" I ask, once I'm settled in the driver's seat.

She shrugs, dipping her head to look up at the sky. "I think the weather'll hold. Can we go to the beach?"

"Sure."

The sea sparkles sapphire, and a breeze ruffles the hem of Bella's dress as we walk out along the pier. The saltwater-worn wood is smooth under our bare feet. As we have so many times before, we sit down at the end, our legs swinging, the sun warm on our backs. Bella leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her waist.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you, too."

We stay there, comforting and comforted, until the sky is streaked with purple and gold, and the sun starts sinking into the sea.

* * *

"Edward."

"Edward."

It's dark, and I'm comfortable. I mumble something and roll over.

"Edward." Bella's no longer whispering.

"Huh?" I struggle to sit up, sheets and blankets twisted around my legs. "Are you okay? What's going on?"

"Just another craving."

_Shit._ _Please, please don't be about to ask me to drive across town at – _I glance at the clock_ – after four in the morning_.

I know I said I'd try to be patient, to be more understanding of her cravings, but really? I'm dead tired after a long and emotional day. All I want to do is curl around Bella and dive back into a heavy sleep.

"I really want a peanut butter sandwich."

It takes a while for the request to sink in, but when it does, I have to laugh. A peanut butter sandwich. That, I can do. I'm so relieved, I don't even suggest she make it herself.

I grab my sweatpants from the floor and pull them on. "You better not be asleep when I come back," I mutter.

Bella's sleepy giggle follows me into the kitchen.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and for sharing your thoughts with me. I love hearing from you all. Your reviews are cherished.**

**BelieveItOrNot gave up precious time to look over this for me. She's super busy at the moment, and I'm incredibly thankful for her generosity - both with her time, and with her advice and guidance. **

**Love, Shell x**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.**

* * *

The sound of a fist on wood drags me from my dreams. Disoriented by the gloomy dark swathing the bedroom—_ah, the blackout blinds are drawn_—I groan at the insistent pounding. The idiot at our front door might as well be knocking on my skull.

Blinking against the bright February day shining through the rest of the house, I shuffle down the hallway, cursing whoever the fuck is so determined to bang down the door. I'm not even sure what time it is—maybe late morning, judging by the patterns the sun is throwing across the wood floors of the entry way.

"Yeah?" I swing open the door, expecting a salesperson or Jehovah's Witness. Hoping it's someone I can tell to take a hike, because I've had nowhere near my definition of "sufficient sleep" after a week of night shifts, and I'm not in the mood to buy anything or be converted.

"Oh, did I wake you?"

I scratch my head as I narrow my eyes at my mother. "Who did you expect to answer the door on a Friday morning? Bella's at work, and if I'm home, chances are I'm asleep." I'm being rude, I know.

"It's Saturday," Mom tells me. Guilt or concern creases her brow. "I thought Bella would …"

I squint as I look out over the driveway. Bella's car is missing, and it takes me a few moments to remember why she's not home.

"She's doing prenatal pilates."

Mom nods and holds out a dish towel-wrapped casserole pot. "I accidentally cooked too much and … well, we won't eat it all, so I thought it'd save you having to cook tonight. Or tomorrow."

I rub my fists into my eyes to hide the fact I want to roll them. _Who accidentally cooks too much? When they're cooking for two?_

"Thanks, Mom."

She hands me the still-warm crock pot. "Well, I best be going then. Let you get back to bed."

I sigh as she turns away and steps down off our porch. I feel kind of bad, but not enough to invite her in for a coffee. "Mom–"

She turns back, looking … hopeful, maybe? I'm too tired to decipher her expression.

"I appreciate this, I really do. And Bella will, too."

She smiles. "I'm glad."

I shift the weight of the ceramic dish to my other arm and sigh.

The further Bella moves into the second trimester of her pregnancy, the easier I've been breathing. She's feeling a lot better, too—the morning sickness seems to have abated. It means I don't usually see her on those mornings when I've worked a night shift, but I'm not about to complain about not being woken up by the sound of her being violently ill.

But of course, life has a habit of replacing one stress with another, and with our families involved now … well, it's the third time in the last week that Mom's dropped by with food—though I was at work the last two times—and Renée "was just in the area," twice, as well. I know they mean well, and are just excited to help out, but I fear they'll drive us crazy if I don't nip this in the bud.

"Listen. It'd be–" I pull my free hand through my hair "–really helpful if you could call before you drop by."

"I did," Mom says. "But no one answered."

Yawning, I shake my head. "That usually means no one's home, Mom." I try to keep my voice gentle.

I set the food down on the doorstep, and hold my arms out to my mother as I step off the porch. I've been taller than Mom since I was fourteen, but it's still strange how tiny she feels in my arms.

"I love you," I tell her, "and we know you want to help. But we're doing okay for now, all right?"

"Okay," she says, and I'm relieved that I don't hear too much hurt in her voice.

I release her and step back, stifling another yawn.

"Go back to bed."

"Yes, Mom."

She chuckles, and I grin. I think we understand each other.

"Goodnight."

I wait until she drives away before closing the front door. I put the casserole in the fridge, and stumble back into our darkened bedroom, my eyes watering from the yawns that keep rolling through me.

There's a pretty good chance I'm asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

* * *

"This is so good," Bella says. Or at least, I think that's what she says—her mouth is full of my mom's casserole.

I spear another mushroom and put it on the side of Bella's plate. "Yeah. She clearly made it with you in mind."

Bella grins as she stabs the mushroom and chews it happily. "You're such a baby. Mushrooms are delicious."

"They're a fungus," I say. "That–" I point my fork at her as she lifts another to her lips "–is basically the same kind of life form as that gross stuff between people's toes. You're pretty much licking someone's Athlete's Foot right now."

She shakes her head and reaches for her water. "Well, there's a delightful image."

I shrug, unapologetic. "Fungus-eater."

We're eating some kind of beef and red wine stew thing, with a cheesy polenta crust on top, and despite the presence of Satan's toejam, it _is_ pretty delicious.

I take a sip of my beer and then dump another couple of mushrooms on Bella's plate. Mom has, quite considerately, quartered the evil bastards so they're easy to pick out. When I was kid, she used to grate them into our meals. Like I wouldn't notice their slimy disgustingness if she shredded them fine enough or something.

"Oh," I tell her. "When Mom came by with this, I asked her to call before showing up."

Bella nods, her eyes on her plate as she speaks. "Thanks for that. I mean, I appreciate her generosity, but …"

"Yeah."

She looks up at me. "I feel kinda bad."

"Don't," I say. I realize that's easier said than done, and I tell her so. "And I spoke to Katie this afternoon, and she said Mom was the same when she was pregnant with Eleazar. Until she put her foot down and told her she'd ask for help when she needed it."

Bella thinks about that for a while, drawing the tines of her fork through the polenta. "Would it help to be pre-emptive, do you think?"

I set my fork down and reach for my beer. Around my plate, the blue and white check tablecloth Bella spread across the table before we ate is spattered with tiny red splotches of tomato-based sauce. Tablecloths are weird.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Bella's fork clinks against her plate, "if I, say, asked her and Mom to go shopping with me for some maternity clothes … or to paint the nursery or something. Do you think they'd feel more involved, and so not feel the need to just show up all the time?"

"But I want to help you paint the nursery," I say, frowning. We agreed just last week to paint it white with some red trim and ladybug decals.

Bella huffs and looks at the ceiling, and I think I've missed the point she was making.

"It was just an example," she says. "It doesn't have to be that. It could be picking out curtains, or a stroller, or I don't know … a freaking breast pump." She shudders and I grin. She's not sold on the concept—while she likes the idea of being able to leave me with baby and a bottle if she wants to go out for a while, she thinks it sounds a little bit too much like being milked, and she says she never wants to feel like a dairy cow.

I chuckle at the remembered conversation, but sober quickly as I turn over her suggestion. While I think shopping with both our mothers at the same time sounds pretty exhausting, it really might go a long way in helping them to feel like we want them to be involved.

I nod. "You know, that sounds like a really good idea."

Bella smiles, relief painted across her face. "Mom's coming around tomorrow for brunch. I'll make plans with her then, and I'll let Esme know."

* * *

Renée turns up the next morning juggling two cups of coffee, a paper bag, and a pile of magazines.

"Oh," she says, breezing past me when I open the door, "Bella said you'd be out. I only got two coffees."

"I'm heading out in half an hour," I say. I have plans to meet Jamie at the squash courts. "Bella said you'd be here at ten."

She leads me down the hallway, glancing at the clock in the kitchen. It's barely nine-thirty. "Oh, I suppose I am a little early."

Bella wanders into the kitchen behind us, and her gaze flickers from the clock to her mother to me. She looks gorgeous in her still sleep-rumpled state, the strap of her camisole hanging off her shoulder. Her nipples, darkened with her pregnancy, are just visible beneath the satiny lilac fabric. The cut is loose and flowy, hiding the curve of her belly. At eighteen weeks, she's just started showing, and to her amusement (and disbelief), I find the swell of her stomach unspeakably sexy.

I grit my teeth as her mother starts prattling about how beautiful the weather is and what a lovely Spring we're going to have. I want to drag Bella back to the bedroom and make love to her. To feel the silk of her pajamas against the backs of my hands as I cup her breasts. To pull those little shorts down her legs. To run my hands across her round belly as she moves over me.

Bella catches my gaze and what I'm thinking must be written on my face because her cheeks turn pink and she folds her arms across her chest, shaking her head.

"Mom, I'm just going to get dressed." She points at me, then at the floor of the kitchen. A silent command to stay where I am. I pout and she smirks, mouthing "Later."

I'll hold her to that.

I'm not sure Renée even hears Bella over her own babbling as she continues on about how sunny it is, and how beautiful the flowers in our garden are, and how lovely the something-or-other would be in a bouquet.

_Bouquet?_ Ah, fuck.

I glance at the stack of glossy magazines she's set on the table, skimming the titles embossed on their spines. More than half of them seem to be pregnancy, birth, and parenting related … the others are bridal magazines. Subtle.

My fists balled, I realize I have about two minutes to say something—if I'm going to. My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth as my mind races in inconclusive circles. _Tell her to back off. Divert her attention. Say nothing. Say something._

"What was that?"

Bella's arms are folded across her chest again—though she's now wearing a bra and a blue cardigan over a pretty floral sundress that skims over her belly. Her eyes narrow as she scans the titles of the magazines on the table.

"What are those?" Her voice is wound tight, like it will explode in volume at any moment.

"Oh, I brought you a coffee—decaf, of course—and some pastries." I can't tell from her benign smile whether Renée's misunderstanding is deliberate or not.

Bella doesn't bother to mention the smell of coffee still turns her stomach. "These." She stabs a finger to the pile of magazines.

"Oh." Renée's smile droops a little as she looks between Bella and myself.

"Well, just to give you some ideas," she says. Her voice isn't as bright as it was when she first burst through the front door. "Can't hurt to take a look, see what options there are and so on."

I look to Bella, trying to take my cue from her. I'm still wondering if I should say something or if this is a battle she wants to fight on her own. Her bare foot taps against the timber a few times as she considers her mother.

"Bel?"

She looks at me, her eyes soft. "You should go," she says, her voice even. "You'll be late."

She nods when I hesitate, uncrossing her arms and reaching for me. She kisses my neck and then my lips as I look down at her.

My mouth by her ear, I ask her if she'll be okay, and she nods again.

"Fine," she says. "We'll talk when you get home."

I'm unconvinced, but what am I going to do? Tell her she's not okay? Insist on staying when she's trying to kick me out? She clearly wants to deal with her mom on her own so I smile and kiss her temple.

"Okay. I'll only be a couple of hours."

"Tell Jamie I said 'hi.'"

I say goodbye to Renée, and it annoys me that she seems relieved that I'm leaving. If she's going to meddle, she should, in my opinion, have the decency to do it when I'm around.

* * *

The first law of thermodynamics states that the energy of a system is constant. It cannot be created, nor destroyed, but it can be transformed.

I'm pretty sure that's what happens on a squash court. The squeak of shoes against the floor, the thud of the ball against the walls, the sweat dripping down my back, the grunt of exertion that echoes with each stroke of a racquet—friction and stress being converted to heat and sound energy. It's therapeutic, and after four matches, I'm exhausted—in a good way.

"How's Bella doing, man?" Jamie's voice is muffled by the towel he's wiping his face with.

"Pretty good," I say. I gulp down some more water. "Seems like her morning sickness has gone, so that's good."

"Nice," he says. "What's she up to this morning?"

I groan, glancing at my watch. I wonder if Renée will still be there when I get home, and what kind of mood I'll find Bella in. "Having brunch with her mom."

Jamie nods, and his understanding expression tells me Bella's probably been in Vicky's ear. His words confirm my hypothesis. "She still nagging you to get hitched before your peanut shows up?"

"Yeah. She came over with a stack of bridal magazines this morning."

"Crazy."

I blow my hair out of my eyes. "Tell me about it." I chuck my water bottle into my bag and squat down to pull the zip closed.

"Bella put her in her place?"

"I'm not sure," I say. "She told me to head out, and I guess … well, I think she wanted to deal with it herself." _I hope I read her right._

Jamie nods as he pulls his hoodie from his bag. He shrugs into it and pulls the zip up, his brow wrinkled in thought.

"You know, when Vic got laid off," he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "she went on a rampage with our finances. She spent hours on the computer sorting out cheaper health insurance and arguing with the phone companies and whatever."

I squint as I follow him outside into the midday sun. I'm really not sure what Victoria's being laid off has to do with Bella and Renée.

"It drove me crazy for a while. I was like, you don't have to do this. We're fine. I mean, she got a pretty good severance package, and at the time, I was so busy I was having to turn down jobs."

"Okay." I don't really know what else to say.

He claps a hand to my shoulder. "But she told me, 'I need to feel capable.' She loved her job, you know? Loved the responsibility and the stress. And sitting around at home while she looked for a new position – she said she needed to feel like she was still capable of making decisions and getting shit done."

"But Bella …"

He laughs. "Think about it, man." He clicks the fob to unlock his SUV. "I'll see you soon."

I'm halfway home before I finally understand what Jamie was trying to say.

Bella needs to feel strong.

After losing our first baby, she most likely feels powerless as this child grows in her womb. She can't exert any influence over her pregnancy—she can't prevent herself from miscarrying again. Life is not something we have control over.

But her mom … Bella _can_ deal with her. She can tell her to take a hike, or she can invite her to go breast pump shopping, or she can look through bridal magazines with her. She feels vulnerable, and she needs to know her own strength. She needs that sense of impetus.

"Huh."

I can't see Renée's car when I pull into our street, but she may have had Charlie drop her off. I was too distracted to notice when I headed out.

Just in case she's still around, and still nagging Bella, I slam the door and make as much noise as I can as I dump my keys onto the sideboard and kick my shoes off.

"Mom's gone," Bella calls out. "You don't need to make such a racket."

Chuckling, I unzip my hoodie and wander into the kitchen. Bella greets me with a smirk and a bottle of water.

"Thanks."

"How was it?" She leans back against the granite countertop.

I down half the bottle and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Good. Well, he thrashed me—three games to one—but it was fun."

I lean forward to kiss her cheek but she stops me with a hand to my chest.

"You stink," she says, her nose wrinkling. "Shower first."

"Yes, ma'am." I look around. The breakfast table is draped with open magazines, and I spot a few pieces of paper covered with Bella's neat handwriting. "All sorted?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah. It's fine. Mom's just in a pissy mood at moment." She shrugs. "I was thinking, after she left, and I don't know … I think it's her way of dealing with me having a baby. Like … her little girl's growing up too fast or whatever, and she needs to boss me around one last time."

"Huh." It seems like everyone's overdosed on insight this morning—except me.

Bella sighs. "She'll get over it … I hope."

I scratch my jaw. "And you're okay?"

"Fine." She lifts her eyebrows, daring me to argue or fuss.

I'm not stupid. "Okay. Good."

Her expression softens when I don't press. I put my hand on her belly, half-expecting her to push me away—I do stink pretty bad. She doesn't.

"You know what got me through?" The words rush out of her, and I get the feeling she's been waiting to tell me this.

I tilt my head as I study her.

She's not smiling, but she's … well, she's all lit up from the inside. Something beyond that "glowy" pregnant thing. Her eyes are sparkling as she looks from where my hand rests on her stomach to my face. "I felt baby moving."

A sharp-edged lump sticks in my throat as her words take shape in my mind.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Are there even words for this? Are any of them big enough, meaningful enough to express the way my rib cage suddenly feels too small to contain my heart?

I stare at my hand where it rests on Bella's belly. At eighteen weeks, according to the app on my phone, our baby's the size of a bell pepper—too small for me to feel any movement yet. I look for jealousy hiding inside me, but find none. Not even a twinge as I look up into Bella's eyes, see the tears shining there, the sheer weight of joy that rests upon her—how could I begrudge her this?

"That's …" I shake my head as my voice cracks. "That's amazing."

Bella nods, blinking back her tears. She scrapes her teeth over her lip, and then, like the emotion can't be contained inside her a moment longer, she launches herself at me. My sweat-stench forgotten, she's in my arms and she's laughing and crying and I think she's telling me that she loves me, but I can't quite hear her over the strange sounds of joy that are ripping from my throat, too.

Her sobs quiet after a while, and feeling kind of nervous and just a little silly, I get to my knees in front of Bella. I look up at her, silently asking for her approval. She's still crying, her smile wide as tears streak her cheeks. She nods, swallowing hard.

Her dress makes it awkward. I tug at the hem for a moment, before I decide I just don't care how this looks. I lift the hem and push the fabric up out of the way. Bella helps me out, bunching it up under her breasts.

I'm momentarily distracted by her mint-green, lace and satin panties, but then I look at the curve of her belly, and all I can think about is the tiny person kicking around in there. I press a kiss just below Bella's belly button, and her stomach muscles contract as she stifles another sob.

"I love you," I say. "And I love your Mommy. So much."

Bella sniffles.

I lower my voice to a whisper. "Thank you."

I'm not sure who I'm directing that to. Bella, our baby, or something beyond us all. Maybe all of the above, because in this moment, the gratitude I feel for this small life, and this small reassurance, simply cannot stay inside me.

I say it again. "Thank you."

My face is wet as I rest my cheek against Bella's stomach. Her fingers sweep through my hair, tugging at the still-damp strands. I close my eyes and let contentment blanket me.

For the first time in over fifteen weeks, as long as we've known Bella was pregnant, the anxiety and panic fade away. There's just no room for them right now.

Eventually, my knees start aching, pressed against the hard, wood floor, and I get to my feet. Bella smoothes her dress back down, kisses me, then giggles. "You still stink."

"Sorry." I pull off my hoodie and wipe my face on it.

Bella walks around the other side of the bench, wiping beneath her eyes with her fingertips. "You hungry?" She yanks open the fridge, setting her magazine pages fluttering, and starts pulling out food. She grabs some ham and cheese, as well as the margarine and some mustard.

"Starving."

Sliding open the cutlery drawer with a metallic clatter, Bella shakes her head at my exaggeration. "Go shower," she says, pointing a butter knife at me. "I'll get rid of those damn magazines before you're done. I'm sick of looking at them."

"Sure."

* * *

**A/N: Your reviews are love. It means so much to me to hear your thoughts.**

**BelieveItOrNot is a cup of tea in the sunshine, with the ocean breezing fluttering through my hair. She knows how much her help means to me.**

**Thank you, as ever, for reading. Shell x**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7.**

* * *

"I'm not going out."

I set the razor on the sink, wipe any residual foam from my face with a wet washcloth, and step back into the bedroom. Bella is standing in her underwear—white ones with red polka dots, a red bow peeking out from under the curve of her stomach—with several pairs of inside-out jeans strewn on the carpet around her.

"What's wrong?" I realize I probably know the answer to that as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

She kicks at the closest pair of jeans. "None of my jeans fit my fat ass."

"So wear a dress."

Wrong answer.

She flops onto the bed, her arms folded across her chest.

"Bella."

She rolls away from me, and even as I grapple for something to say, some words to comfort and reassure her, my gaze drags along the curves of body—into the dip of her waist and over the roundness of her hip, sliding down her thigh.

I'm not sure how anything I could say right now would be received.

"You're gorgeous."

"You're so fucking sexy."

"I don't care if you're hips are wider and your stomach is rounder–" _Yeah, that one's a terrible idea. _

But maybe … maybe I can show her how desirable she is.

Pulling myself close, my fingers curled around her hip, I press my pelvis against her ass. "Do you feel that?"

She nods against the pillow, her hair trailing across the dark blue cotton.

I slide my hand forward, over the curve of her stomach, until I find the bow at the top of her panties. I tug a few times, shamelessly rubbing myself against her backside. "Do you feel how much I want you?"

I hear her swallow. "Yes."

Flicking the elastic waistband, I pull my hand away. I lift her hair off her back and toy with the clasp of her bra. "Can I?"

"Yes."

I unclasp it, then pull the strap over her shoulder. Her back arches as I cup her breast. I set my lips to her shoulder blade, kissing and licking her just-showered skin.

She mumbles something, her spine bowing as she reaches back, weaving her fingers into my hair. Curled behind her, I can only explore her skin with one hand. I press my knee between her thighs, and she grunts softly as she pushes against me.

This time when I tug on her hip, she moves willingly, rolling onto her back. She untangles her bra from her other arm and lets it fall to the floor. Her chest is flushed pink, her eyes half-closed as she looks up at me, breathing heavily.

Cautious of the small bump of her belly, I hover over her, keeping my weight supported on my arms. I kiss her hard, leaving her gasping for breath when I pull away. I trail kisses down her throat, loving her little moans and whimpers.

"I love these," I tell her, staring at her nipples. They're darker, larger with her pregnancy. Bella giggles and then gasps as I circle one with my tongue. I repeat the action on the second, then keep moving down.

I kiss her belly button, then from hipbone to hipbone, just above the waistband of her panties. "I love this," I tell her.

Sitting back on my knees, I hook my fingers into the sides of her panties, dragging them down her legs. She kicks them off and I settle between her thighs.

I keep kissing her, across her belly, up her thighs … kissing and licking and sucking until she stiffens and cries out, her fists tight in my hair.

I crawl back up her body, keeping my weight off her. Though the nursing-trained side of my brain knows my body weight is no threat to the baby, the nervous Dad-to-be side isn't convinced … and I don't know what's comfortable for Bella at this stage.

She seems oblivious to my concern, however, wrapping her legs around my hips and pulling me close.

Her eyelids are heavy as she smiles up at me. "Love you," she says, her heels digging into the small of my back.

I think I tell her I love her, too, but after that all I can manage are grunts and groans as we move together, slow at first and then with increasing urgency, until we dissolve into a tangle of boneless limbs.

"Baby?"

"Mmm." I open one eye to look at her. She's still flushed, her hair a wild mess across the pillow.

"I–I … Thank you."

I huff a laugh. "Are you kidding me right now?"

She pushes up on an elbow, and my gaze strays down to her breasts as they sway. Her giggle snaps my attention back to her face, to the soft smile there. She leans over and kisses my cheek. "I don't mean for that. Although, that was pretty spectacular …" Her cheeks flush a darker pink.

"Just … I know it means baby is healthy and growing … but I just … Well, thank you for not telling me I was being ridiculous or whatever."

I lift my head and press my lips to hers. "You're not ridiculous. It's gotta be weird, sharing your body with someone else, no matter how welcome a visitor they are."

She smiles, nodding. "I love you."

Curving my hand across her belly, I look at her, hoping she can read my sincerity. "This, Bella. This is beautiful. This is you and me."

She shakes her head, and at first I worry I've said the wrong thing … until she swipes a knuckle beneath her eye. "Thank you," she says again.

"Hey." I curl a finger under her chin. "Thank _you._"

I kiss her temple. "Do you still want to go out?"

"Yeah." She snickers. "I'm starving."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we're walking hand-in-hand toward the café. Bella finally settled on wearing a cute little violet dress with a cream-coloured cardigan over the top. She looks gorgeous.

She leaves me when we step inside, wrinkling her nose at the smell of fresh ground coffee, and heads over to the big carafes of water against the back wall.

When she rejoins me, I catch a whiff of the mint and lemon that float in the frosty glass she's holding. Bella follows my gaze and immediately tries to hand it to me.

"Nah. I'm okay."

She nods absently, her neck craning as she scans the menu. "Do I want something sweet or savory?"

"Um … I have no idea. What does baby want?"

She looks down at her tummy, shrugging. "Probably both."

I look back up at the blackboards. I'm about to suggest she get the Big Breakfast until I remember the pile of jeans still lying on our bedroom floor. Maybe I shouldn't suggest anything with the word "big" in it just now.

Bella and I step up to the counter when the two guys ordering ahead of us wander away, one of them carrying a table number, the other stuffing his change into his wallet. The scruffy looking guy behind the counter smiles at us through his beard. It's almost red, completely unlike the dark brown hair on his head, and possibly more impressive than Charlie's. I nudge Bella's elbow, indicating she should order first.

The server guy's eyebrows do this little jump as he looks down at her, light glinting off the ring in his eyebrow. "What can I get for you, beautiful?"

Bella blinks at him, then looks back at the menu chalked across the wall above his head. "Ah, I'll get the french toast with bacon," she says, "and the Green Boost smoothie."

"Excellent choice, Princess" he says. He pushes a few buttons on his register, then looks up at me … and winks. "And for you, handsome?"

Bella nearly chokes on the water she's just taken a mouthful of.

"Uh, I … Bacon and eggs, please. And an americano."

"The eggs - scrambled, poached or fried?"

"Poached."

"On sourdough, miche or turkish?"

"Sourdough. Thanks."

While I hand over my Visa, Bella wanders back outside. She chooses us a table in the sun, flipping her sunglasses onto her nose.

She grins at me when I sit down. "What's his deal, do you think?"

I shrug, trading my reading glasses for sunnies. "Maybe he just flirts with everybody."

"He's cute." Bella puts my glasses in their case and shoves them into her bag.

"You think? Beards don't really do it for me."

"And he's observant. You _are_ very handsome."

"Thanks, _Princess_."

Captain Redbeard turns up with my coffee and Bella's smoothie-thing, flashing his smile indiscriminately. "An americano for sir … and a Green Boost smoothie for the lovely lady."

* * *

When all that remains on my plate is a smear of egg-yolk yellow and scattered sourdough crumbs, I push it to the side and lean forward, my elbows on the table. "Question."

Bella takes a sip of the bright green smoothie thing. She can't tolerate the smell of coffee, but she'll drink something that looks (and smells) like pulverized grass. "Hit me."

"Are we going to find out? On Wednesday?"

"Wednesday …" Bella reaches for her phone—presumably to check her calendar—but then her hand pauses. "Oh, the scan – You mean if we're having a boy or a girl?"

"Yeah."

She giggles, stirring her drink with its straw. "No need, I already know."

I shake my head. She's thoroughly convinced the baby is a boy.

Picking up my coffee, I drain the last few mouthfuls. Bella's gaze drifts away as she coils one finger into her hair. It looks like she's watching the three young girls at the counter flirting with the server as he takes their orders, but I know she probably hasn't even registered their presence.

I should've anticipated her answer: "Do _you_ want to?"

"I don't know."

She nods, her gaze still far away. "Me either."

I steal her glass of water, finishing that off, too. "Maybe that's it, then."

"Huh?"

"If we don't know if we want to know … maybe that means we don't want to know yet."

"I guess …" She pushes the corner of a piece of toast through the syrup puddled on her plate. "But maybe we'd get to feel more, I don't know … like, what about choosing a name and stuff? Decorating the baby's room? Buying clothes?"

"Well, we've already decided on the room, right? And it's pretty neutral."

"Yeah." Bella rubs her hand across her belly. "And we can pick a boy's name and a girl's name, so I guess that's not really a reason."

"And as far as buying clothes, well, I think between the hand-me-downs Claire and Katie are dying to unload, and the probability of both our mothers going crazy in Pumpkin Patch, I doubt we'll even need to buy the kid any clothes until he or she is in preschool."

Bella wrinkles her nose at that. "I, um, I'm pretty fussy about baby clothes. Especially on girls."

"I know. You love frills and pink and headbands, right?" I chuckle at her expression—she looks like she's sucking on a lemon. "It's fine. We'll just smile and say thank you, and if there's things you don't like, then you don't have to use them."

"So … I guess we're not going to find out."

"Do you have a preference? Despite _knowing_ it's a boy … I mean, would you be sad if it's actually a girl?"

She looks at me, "what kind of stupid question is that?" painted across her face.

"Right." I smile. "I don't know … it'll be nice to be surprised, I think."

"Okay."

I lean toward her, placing my hand on her belly. Sometime in the next few weeks I'll get to feel the movement of tiny limbs beneath Bella's skin, but today is not that day.

"So sweet." The server dude has our empty plates balanced on one hand—I didn't even register his arrival at our table.

I pull my hand away as Bella starts gathering up her things. She gives the guy a wide smile when he wishes us good luck.

"Thank you," she says. They chat for a few moments about how far along she is (almost twenty weeks), when she's due (July 10), and how she's been feeling (tired, but glad to be done with morning sickness).

Bella's hand doesn't leave the top of her small belly as she talks, and that seems to be some kind of bat-signal, because the next thing three elderly ladies have joined the conversation, advising Bella in their loud, creaky voices about breast-feeding and diaper rash, and who knows what else. I get maneuvered to the outside of their little circle as they each take turns at putting their hand on Bella's tummy, making predictions about the baby's sex, based on the shape of her stomach.

I wait, trying to be patient, as she smiles and laughs with her new-found friends. But then I see the tension creep into her jaw, her lips thinning as she presses them together. She shifts her weight from foot to foot.

I sidle between two of the grey-haired grandmas, my hand finding Bella's lower back. "Ladies, may I steal my fiancée back, please?"

They cluck and simper, patting me on the shoulder as I extricate Bella from the little knot they've formed around her.

She waits until we're out of earshot. "Fuck."

"That bad?"

She sighs. I swing an arm across her shoulders and she leans into me. "I don't know. It's just weird that people feel like they can touch you when you're pregnant, you know? Like, no one's going to come up to _you_ and start touching your belly. That'd be weird."

"Completely."

"But those ladies had no qualms putting their hands all over me, lecturing me about sleeping and feeding routines … It's a little bit overwhelming. Feeling like public property or something."

I kiss her temple. "You don't have to put up with anything that makes you uncomfortable."

"Yeah." I feel her shrug. "I know. Thanks for rescuing me, by the way. I'd about reached my limit."

"Anytime."

* * *

The sensor light in the driveway flicks on as I pull in, but otherwise the house is shrouded in darkness. Even the porch light isn't on. It's on a timer, though, so I figure I probably need to replace the bulb.

I check my phone before I get out of the car. There's a text from Bella telling me she has to work late, and that she's bringing Chinese takeout home, so I don't need to cook.

I guess that explains that. I vaguely remember her telling me last night that someone had screwed up something, and she was under the pump trying to get it all sorted out. Most of it went over my head.

I let myself in and flick on the hall light. In the kitchen, I check the shelf in the pantry where we keep spare globes, but we don't have the right one for the fitting on the porch. Grabbing the pen swinging from the fridge, I jot down a note on this week's shopping list.

Bella arrives about an hour later, bringing with her the clatter of her heels on the entryway floor as she kicks them off, and the salty-spicy smell of Chinese food. She heaves a sigh as she dumps the bags on the coffee table.

"Sit down," I tell her, getting to my feet. She's got three pencils holding her hair in a messy bun, and there's a ladder in her stockings, running from ankle to knee. She looks tired and stressed, her makeup not quite hiding the dark circles under her eyes.

I grab some cutlery from the kitchen, as well as a beer for myself and a glass of root beer for Bella. Her thanks is carried on a sigh and accompanied by a slight grimace.

She takes a sip of her soda, watching me as I bring the beer to my lips. I feel bad. Maybe I should have offered to do a dry nine months or something. "Sorry, I know it's not the same."

"I haven't really missed booze, you know?" She sighs again. "But today – today a beer would go down very nicely."

"Tough day?"

She pulls a box from the bag and opens it. "This is yours. That okay?"

"Of course." She got me Mu Shu pork—my favourite.

She only returns to my question once she's eaten a few bites of her Cheng Du chicken. "It wasn't anything major, just time consuming. Lots of fiddly little details I had to correct."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. It's all fixed now, though."

"Well, that's good."

"Yeah."

We eat in silence for a while, sitting on the rug in front of the coffee table. Bella leans against the couch, a pillow stuffed behind her lower back. She steals a sip of my beer, muttering that root beer is not the appropriate accompaniment for Chinese.

"You don't even usually like porter-style beers."

She shrugs. Chopsticks hovering over the box, she stares at the blank television screen. "So, Marcus spoke to me today."

"Yeah?"

"About maternity leave and stuff. Returning to work after the baby comes. He and Caius want to know what my plans are."

"Do you know what they are?" I'm slightly annoyed—mostly at myself. We should have had this conversation before her boss brought it up with her. She's just past twenty-two weeks now, and I realize I don't even know what she wants to do.

"No." She frowns, looking a little hurt. "You know that's not a decision I'd make without talking to you about it."

I do know that.

She picks up a piece of chicken, then pauses with it halfway to her mouth. "I think I'll try to work until about 36 weeks—assuming everything is okay with baby—and with my health."

I nod. "Sure." At her last scan, they assured us everything was looking good—that baby was healthy and growing as he or she should be. And I've learned to trust that Bella's self-aware enough to know how hard she can push herself. I tell her as much. "And what about once the baby comes? How much time do you want to take off?"

As an architect, and a sought-after one at that, Bella easily makes two to three times what I do. While she was still completing her Masters, she was head-hunted by Vol Turi and Associates, having impressed the partners with the work she was doing in eco-design. She's since carved out an impressive niche for herself—and the firm—through her use of sustainable materials and her focus on designing climate-conscious spaces, thereby reducing the energy wasted in heating and cooling.

Despite her income, we've always been sensible about saving, and we don't lead a particularly extravagant lifestyle. We can afford for her to take about a year, maybe two, off—any longer than that, and we'd manage, though it would mean cutting back in a few areas.

"The contract I signed when I took my current position entitles me to three months maternity leave at full pay."

"That's really good."

"It is." She pops a piece of broccoli into her mouth. "And Marcus told me today that they're happy to let me take that as six months on half-pay."

"Wow."

Her smile is small, but proud. "Apparently, they really don't want to lose me."

My smile mirrors hers, though I make no effort to suppress my pride. "And which option are you leaning toward?"

"Well, I was thinking … I'd like to take that six months."

"Okay–"

Bella holds up her hand. "And then, maybe … for at least the year after that, I'm wondering how I'd go working from home three days a week."

"And the other two in the office?"

She shakes her head. "No, just the three days from home. Well, I'd probably have to go into the office for a few hours every week, but most of my work can be done from here … But, do you think, I mean, it'll mean a reasonably significant drop in my income, but I–I don't really want to go back full-time too soon."

She tugs on one of the pencils still jammed in her hair. "I'd like a chance to be home, to enjoy watching baby grow up. Maybe it's selfish, but I don't want a daycare worker to be the one who gets to see him–" she smirks at my raised eyebrows "–or _her_ reach all those little milestones."

"I don't think that's selfish, Bel."

"Even though _you_ might miss some of them? Even though it means we're not quite as comfortable financially as we could be?"

"Money doesn't matter."

Bella frowns. "Well, it kinda does."

I wave a hand. "It kinda does, yeah. But we'll do just fine with you getting sixty percent of what you're on now. Even if you wanted to just work two days, we'd get by okay. Sure, it might mean we don't disappear to Europe for six weeks at a time, but so what?"

"You don't think Baby would be severely disadvantaged by not seeing Le Louvre before he's six months old?"

"I think he'll cope."

She grins, some of the tension around her eyes smoothing away. She puts her half-finished meal on the coffee table and leans back, a hand resting on the top of her growing belly. "Oh!".

I'm moving immediately, scooting around the table to sit by her side. She grabs my hand and places it against her belly.

"I can't feel anything."

"Shhh."

After five minutes, I sigh, and reach for my food again, knowing that baby will probably start moving now that I've given up.

"It'll happen," Bella says, her voice soft with regret. "Soon."

I smile at her. "I know." _Just not tonight. _

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and for your continued support. Your reviews make me smile. **

**BelieveItOrNot - you're the bestest ever. Thank you. **

**Shell x**


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